Dying to Know You (15 page)

I walked down to the river but couldn’t find him. No one else was around to ask if they’d seen him. The grounds of the hotel—once a stately home, it was even better than its publicity, a rare quality—were extensive, partly wooded, partly parkland. I didn’t fancy trekking everywhere, on the hunt for him. In my disordered state of mind, I began to worry that he might after all have done something silly. I knew how easy it was to slip back into the pit while clawing your way out of it.

What to do?

Calm down, I told myself. Think sensibly.

Of course! Phone him! I took out my mobile and rang his number. Karl answered. Relief!

I said I was ready to go home, where was he? He said he was looking at something he’d like me to see and told me how to find him. He sounded excited, quite the opposite
from his earlier moroseness, and the first time I’d heard that note in his voice since the crisis began.

As I’ve mentioned, the hotel included a “sculpture trail”—a path that wound through the grounds, with sculptures by many artists displayed here and there.

Karl was in a glade in the wooded area, sitting on a bench, leaning forward, arms on thighs, hands clasped together—a posture I’d learned he adopted when thinking hard. He was gazing at what looked to me like a pile of loosely tangled metal rods perched on top of a block of grey stone.

He didn’t budge when I sat down beside him, and only after a few moments of silence said,

“What d’you think?”

“What about?”

He nodded at the pile of rods.

“I don’t know. Meant to be a sculpture, obviously.”

“See how it’s made?”

“Metal rods.”

“Steel. And all one piece, no joins. One length of steel rod. Probably bent by the same kind of tool we use to make bends in pipes.”

“Yes, I see. It flows quite attractively. Turning in on itself and out again. It looks a bit like a doodle drawn with a black pen.”

“But in three-D.”

“Yes, a three-D doodle.”

Karl got up and walked round the sculpture, running
his hand along the rod, feeling its shape, then standing back to view it, here and there bending down to look at it from below. There was energy in his movements, vigour and concentration.

“It’s different from every angle,” he said. “You wouldn’t think that something so simple could make such different shapes from different angles. And it’s so good to look at, you can’t help touching it.”

He toured twice more before I said, “Maybe the artist—”

“William Tucker,” Karl said, pointing to a label on the base. “And it’s called
Beulah One
.”

“I wonder what that means.”

“No idea.”

“Maybe it doesn’t mean anything. Maybe it’s only meant to be something pleasant to look at.”

“You mean, it’s just a … just a
thing
… End of story?”

“Why not? If you want to put it that way.”

“A thing that pleased him.”

“Like a poem, only made of a steel rod, not words.”

Karl looked at me and smiled.

“I like that!” he said. “Poetry in steel. That’s good!”

He sat down again.

“I’ve been looking at it for ages,” he said. “And the more I look at it, the more I want to look at it.”

We were silent for a while. But, as ever, I was aware of the time and wanted to be home because by now I was feeling cold and damp. If I stay much longer, I thought, I’ll come down with a cold or my joints will seize up.

“Look,” I said, “I hate to be a spoilsport, but I’d rather like to make for home, if you wouldn’t mind.”

He got up. But his eyes were still on the sculpture. He walked over to it and ran his hand along a curving section of it.

“I’m sorry,” I said.

“No,” he said, coming back to me, “it’s OK.”

We walked to the car and drove away.

“There was another,” Karl said, when we’d settled into the journey. “By a different artist. It was made of rods as well. They were shaped into the outline of two people, a man and a woman, very tall, taller than real people. It’s like they were drawn in the air. I saw that one first. Looked at it for ages.”

He was like a man woken from a long sleep, and refreshed by breakfast.

“Did you do any fishing?” I asked.

“No. I thought I’d have a walk round, to stretch my legs after the drive, and have some coffee first. I saw some of the sculptures, which I quite liked. Hadn’t seen anything like them before. Then came across the one of the man and woman outlined in steel rods. The others had been all right, but this one really impressed me. And the way it was made of bent rods welded together made me think of my job. So I sat on a bench near it and had some coffee and, I don’t know, went on just sitting there for ages, looking at the sculpture, and thinking.”

“Thinking what?”

“Nothing much.”

“But thinking?”

“Not about anything really.”

“Thoughtless thinking?”

“Thoughtless thinking?”

He gave me a quick glance, and we both laughed.

“Or maybe,” I said, “letting your body do the thinking.”

He stared at me, as if in surprise.

“Body thinking?” he said.

And broke into a fit of laughter, as if he had heard the best joke in the world. He was laughing so much he couldn’t speak and had to stop the car till the fit wore off, when he said: “Yes. Body thinking. That’s what I do.”

I waited till he’d calmed down before saying, “And then?”

“Nothing. Sat there for I don’t know how long. Meant to go back to the car for my gear, but must have turned the wrong way, because I got a bit lost. And then I came across the sculpture that really grabbed me. The other one was meant to be a man and a woman. But this one wasn’t anything except, like you said, just a shape, just a
thing
. As soon as I saw it, I felt … well, I felt it was mine … That sounds stupid when I say it.”

“Not stupid at all. I’ve felt that about a book. A novel.”

“That it was yours? That it had been made only for you?”

“A long time ago. When I was young.”

“Well, anyway, I couldn’t help it. I just had to sit and look at it.”

“And do some body thinking?”

“You could say. The others were made of various stuff. Wood and stone and concrete. But the man and woman and this
Beulah One
were made of nothing except some bent rods. They were as simple as you can get. But the more I looked at them, the more I got out of them. That’s what I liked.”

“So you’re glad you came?”

“I’m glad I came, thanks. But, hey, I haven’t asked how you got on. Was it OK?”

“Least said, soonest forgotten.”

“As bad as that?”

“No. Not bad, not good. But that kind of carry-on isn’t me.”

“So what is you?”

“Words on paper. Reading them and writing them.”

He grinned. “So all you are is words on paper?”

“Not quite. But when I’m on my own, reading and writing, I’m most myself and most at home with myself. And, by the way, I see we need some petrol. We’d better pull in at the next service station.”

“Where, if my guess is right, you’ll need to consult the hedge?”

“You’re getting to know me too well, young man!”

SOMETIMES I WONDER IF WE REALLY DO BRING UNPLEASANT
things upon ourselves just because we say they might happen. Isn’t that why we say “touch wood” or “don’t speak too soon” or “don’t count your chickens before they’re hatched”?

Of course, it’s all baloney, mere superstition. But still, when I came down with ’flu a couple of days after sitting too long in the cold and damp, I couldn’t help thinking that if I hadn’t thought of it then, it might never have happened.

Whatever, I woke on Monday morning as floppy as a wet rag, aching in every muscle and joint, sweating as if in a sauna, my nose feeling like it was full of frothy soap, and my eyes streaming.

They say the young have the ability but lack the wisdom, and the old have the wisdom but lack the ability.
A crudely true generalisation. That morning the wisdom of experience told me I had a bad case of the ’flu, but the inability of old age prevented me from doing much about it.

I took a couple of analgesic pills, drank some water and lay in bed bemoaning my bad luck.

I won’t go on about the following forty-eight hours because they have nothing to do with Karl’s story.

The next thing that happened, which does, was a phone call from Mrs. Williamson on the Thursday evening. (For those who, like myself, keep track of time, this was five days after the trip.)

The reason she called wasn’t mentioned because as soon as she heard my voice she asked if I was all right. I replied as hypocritically as I could that I had “a bit of a cold.”

“You sound dreadful,” she said, which cheered me up at once.

“No, no,” I said. “I’m fine.”

“No, you aren’t,” she said. “How long have you been like this?”

“Since Monday. But it’s nothing to fuss about.”

“I expect you picked it up on Saturday, talking to all those people. Some of them were bound to be full of cold. There’s a lot of it about.”

The usual dialogue on such occasions then followed, including an interrogation into whether I was up or in bed (in bed), who was looking after me (myself), was I drinking a lot of liquids, especially fruit juice (yes: a lie; honest
answer: very little, because I was too weak to bother), what had I eaten (cornflakes, toast and marmalade), how often (enough; untrue: once), what was I taking (analgesics, but I didn’t add that I’d run out of them), was there anything I needed?

The last question was the clincher. I did need the pills, I was almost out of milk and cornflakes, and, as she had mentioned it, could do with some orange juice and ice cream. I was at the stage when your mouth is a cesspit and your throat is coated with little shards of spiky glass. Orange juice and ice cream would go down a treat.

So I gave in and asked if she might—if it wasn’t too much trouble—and if she had time—buy me the above-mentioned items and bring them for me next morning.

Reply: No trouble. Could she get in without my having to come down to open the door? Answer: How very kind, and if she came to the back door, she’d find the emergency key hidden in a tin under a flower pot, three flower pots to the left of the door.

“Not exactly a big test for an apprentice burglar,” Mrs. Williamson said.

My batteries were too low to spark a laugh or a witty retort.

I’d never heard her so chirpy. But I’ve noticed women quite often get like that when you’re under the weather and they take charge. Jane was the same. Perhaps there’s
something in the female genes that releases chirpiness when their maternal impulses are given full rein, not to say, reign.

And I must say, I was only too happy to be reigned. There are times when coddling is the best medicine.

Take it from me, whatever you do, do
not
volunteer to join the swelling ranks of the ancientry. Live long enough, and willy-nilly, you’ll be conscripted. The benefits are limited, the perks are few and the future prospects are unattractive.

The thing to ensure is to keep your mind busy when you’re young with things you can keep your mind busy with when you’re old. Then, if—or rather when—your body lets you down you will still have plenty of mental pleasures to occupy you. Of course, if your mind goes before your body, who cares? You won’t know anything about it.

However, there is one benefit of old age that I should mention, one cause for permanent celebration, one distinct advantage. You aren’t a teenager anymore, and never will be so tediously afflicted again.

And if it’s any consolation for those currently tormented by the delights of adolescence, it will soon end and there’s the prospect of many years of adult pleasures ahead before being conscripted into the delights of what people these days euphemistically call “the third age,” by which they mean the time of increasing decrepitude.

This is all I’m going to say on this tedious topic.

Mrs. Williamson sorted me out, fed and watered me, groomed and refreshed me with such care and attention and so efficiently that I hardly had time to grumble about it.

With me reconditioned, she started on the reason why she had phoned.

“I’m worried about Karl,” she said.

Not again! I thought. Not a relapse?

“He’s acting very strangely,” she continued.

“Why? What’s he doing?”

“That’s just it. I don’t know. He shuts himself up in the garden shed and is there for hours.”

“Have you asked him?”

“You know what he’s like. You can’t get a word out of him when he doesn’t want to.”

“He must have said something.”

“‘Just messing about,’ he says. ‘I’ll tell you later,’ he says. But he’s been at it all week, all the time when he’s not at work.”

“So he is going to work?”

“Still half-time. To be honest, I think it’s time he went full-time. You know him. He has to be busy.”

“You haven’t looked in the shed when he’s out?”

“He keeps it locked. And he blocks the window with a board when he’s not there.”

“How does he seem? I mean, is he depressed like before, or what?”

“No. He’s better than he’s been for ages. When he was
ill, he hadn’t enough energy to get out of bed. Now he has more than he knows what to do with.”