Getting It Right (44 page)

He tested to see whether it was vanity that was conditioning his idea that, to get Jenny on to or into poetry, he would need to read some aloud to her, and decided that it wasn’t. He
always found that he had to read a poem aloud, as well as just reading it: at some point he needed to hear it coming from outside himself. However, if that part of it wasn’t vanity, it was
extremely probable that everything else about it was. He had caught himself smiling at her in a superior way – about the words she used to express her feelings or views about the composers:
Mozart being posh, for instance. Then he thought: No, posh was her word for grand, and grand in one sense was next door to noble – and there was certainly a nobility about Mozart’s
music.

He realized that he’d got to get back to the salon; he’d walked some way without thinking where he was going. Perhaps he stuck to worrying about what poetry he would read to Jenny
that evening because it was a more superable problem than others. Joan, for instance. Was he worrying enough about Joan? Perhaps she was utterly prostrated by Dmitri’s departure: perhaps he
ought to stop trying to telephone her and simply go and see her? He felt he owed her a great deal, and he wanted her to know that he cared about her. Perhaps she didn’t want to talk on the
telephone. Perhaps Winthrop had known this, and had simply gone to see her and she was so lonely that she was glad of anyone. Winthrop didn’t strike him as at all the person one would
choose
to see for comfort. He could ring Harry and find out how she was and, on the strength of what Harry said, he could make some move. Right: that was that . . . Why didn’t he
feel better? Because the
real
problem – whether he was going to go on living at home or not – was nowhere
near
solved. He thought about it in little nervous spurts
– for long enough in fact to feel panicky, and then of course he stopped thinking about it – until the next time.

That evening, when he fetched her from Barnet station, Jenny said:

‘My mum was wondering whether you would like to come to lunch on Sunday. She wants to cook you a meal because of all the ones you’ve given me, and you could see Andrew
properly.’

He said he’d like to, and to thank her.

‘She would’ve made it tomorrow but she’s got to go and see a friend in the country,’ she added, as though there was still some doubt about his acceptance.

‘She hasn’t said anything more about the soldier?’

‘Not a word. I think I was just tired and imagining things.’

They had decided to have bacon and eggs as a change from the pies, and Jenny cooked them while he laid the table. He asked her how she was getting on with
Jane Eyre
.

‘I’ve only just started it: in the bus this morning. She’s in an awful school. They’ve all got chilblains from being half-starved and given all the wrong food as well, I
shouldn’t wonder. You feel that things like that must have happened to her – the author, I mean – or how would she know to write about them?’

‘I think things a bit like that did happen.’ He told her about the Brontës and their austere and tubercular-ridden life in Yorkshire, and she listened round-eyed.

‘Didn’t they know it was catching?’

‘No, they didn’t know about that then. Charlotte didn’t catch it though.’

‘What happened to her?’

‘She married her father’s curate and was very happy with him. Then she died in childbirth.’

‘They didn’t have any luck, did they? How do you know so much about everything? I hope you don’t mind me asking,’ she added.

‘I
don’t
know so much. I know it looks as though I do. But, you see, I’m only telling you about the things I
do
know – there’s tons of stuff I
don’t.’

‘Well, even if that’s true, how do you know what you
do
know? Who told you?’

‘Just reading, really. One thing leads to another.’

‘Nobody taught you?’

‘Well, there was a teacher at my school. He used to talk to me about books. I suppose they started it.’

‘A bit like you’re doing for me?’

‘Yes.’ Then he said: ‘You mustn’t ever pretend to like things, Jenny. And the other thing is that you can’t expect to like everything straight off – at first
go. Some things take a bit of getting used to.’

‘Like people,’ she said unexpectedly, and started to go her amazing colour.

‘What’s up?’ He couldn’t resist asking.

‘I was just thinking how you first seemed to me. It was so different.’

‘You’ll have to tell me, now, won’t you?’

‘I can’t do that. I really can’t!’

‘All right.’ Probably better not to know, but his curiosity had been thoroughly aroused and he felt frustrated. There was some constraint between them after that.

In his room, he started looking through his catalogue for some music that he thought she might be taken by, and then he suddenly thought of that splendid piece of birthday music, ‘Zadok
the Priest’: Handel at his best.

That went down a treat. She had started by lying on the chaise-longue which had become the routine, but when the singing began, she sat bolt upright, hands clutching her knees, shot him one look
of amazement, and then remained motionless until the end, when she said it was the best piece of music she had ever heard in her life. ‘It made my hair stand on end.’

‘It
is
on end,’ he said, and found himself wanting to touch it.

‘Could we play it again?’

‘If you like.’

This time he lit a Wilhelm II: he wanted something to do with his hands. For one insane moment he thought of telling her that he was turning into the kind of person that she had hoped he
wasn’t.
Was
he, though? Bloody good thing he hadn’t said that if he wasn’t even sure! ‘I like her enthusiasm,’ he said to himself. And that was not a lie
– it was merely one of those ingenious half-truths that he knew he went in for.

After they had had the Handel again, he said it was time to go home.

‘No poetry, tonight?’

‘It’s too late.’ Reading aloud a poem that he loved struck him now as about the second most intimate thing he could do with her. He didn’t feel equal to it.

‘. . . you mean to tell me you’re thinking of going off with a girl you’ve only known for a week!’

‘For nearly three years, Mum, actually.’

‘For only three years!’

‘It is rather a difference.’

‘You’ll find things are different! Plunging headlong into dear-knows-what! I expect she’s trapped you. A lot of young girls will stop at nothing. Gavin, you haven’t done
. . . anything silly . . . have you?’

‘Not yet, Mum.’

‘Don’t you be cheeky. I’ve never known you be like this. You’ve never done anything like this before! . . .’

It could go on for ever. The trouble about these conversations was that while they made it clearer and clearer that – sooner or later – he’d
have
to leave home, and
that whenever he did she would be very upset, they did not at all clear up his feelings about Jenny. In fact they seemed to make the whole thing more complicated: he had the feeling that his
mother’s reaction to his association – of any kind with any girl – would be calculated to push him further with whoever she might be than he necessarily wanted to go. Just because
Jenny enjoyed him showing her things didn’t mean that he wanted to be with her all the time. He was only spending so much time with her
now
because his mother was away. And, if you
spent a lot of time with one girl, she would have to be pretty hideous for you never to want to touch her – or anything like that. Wouldn’t she? His mother was someone calculated to
blow up molehills into mountains . . . By now he was in bed and too tired to think straight about anything. ‘I’m fed up,’ he said to himself but, because he was in the dark and
nobody could see him, he smiled.

He had one more go at telephoning Joan, with the same result. By now, he was beginning to feel obscurely angry with her. He asked if the Filipino had taken his last message and was told yes.
Nothing more. If that was how she felt, to hell with it.

Saturday was The Hon. Mrs Shack’s morning and he had telephoned while she was under the hair dryer (Mr Adrian never came in as early as that). A few minutes later, while he was getting a
quick cup of coffee, Daphne called that he was wanted on the phone. Joan calling him back! He was surprised at how excited this made him feel.

It wasn’t Joan; it was Harry.

‘I wondered whether you were by any chance free this evening?’

Gavin hesitated. He could tell from Harry’s voice that something was wrong; on the other hand it was one of Jenny’s last evenings . . . While he was hesitating, Harry said:

‘Do be free. If you possibly can.’

‘Yes, I can be. Shall I come to you?’

‘Thanks, Gavin. Yes, do.’

‘I’ll go home and fetch my bike.’

‘What time will you get to me?’

‘Half-past seven?’

‘Right.’ He rang off.

He sounded
awful
: much worse than an ashtray-bashing.

But it must be something to do with Winthrop; nothing else would make him sound so shaky and tense.

He didn’t get a chance to tell Jenny that their evening was off until the lunch hour, and even then he had to be quick about it, as Jenny’s lunch wasn’t coinciding with his.
Her face clouded, but she listened quietly and then said, ‘Never mind,’ in tones that were admonishing her not to.

Once or twice, during the afternoon, when he was cutting, he looked up to the mirror to see a client’s head, and caught her watching him: juniors were supposed to watch the hairdressers
when they cut, it was one of the ways that they learned, but she wasn’t watching the cut he was doing, she was watching
him
. Each time he caught her eye, she gave him a little
fleeting smile and hurriedly looked away.

It felt quite funny, walking to the station without her: she went home by bus, and they parted in Piccadilly. He turned back to see her joining a large bus queue – she was wearing the
white mac that she’d worn in the Park, the day she’d been feeding ducks and he’d talked to her for the first time. It had taken him nearly three years to talk to her. And then
he’d only done it because, in the distance, he had thought that there was the faintest chance that she might turn out to be the girl of his dreams. Which of course she wasn’t. She just
somehow seemed to have got into his ordinary life.

Harry’s Entryphone was working for once but, even though he ran up the flights of stairs, Harry was waiting for him at the top. He wore his tartan pullover over a dirty white shirt, and he
looked as though he hadn’t shaved. Gavin followed him in silence into the lounge which was littered with dirty coffee cups.

‘Do you want some coffee?’

‘Not unless you want some.’

‘Might as well.’ He went into the kitchen, and Gavin wasn’t sure whether to follow him. Then Harry said, ‘I’ll just put the kettle on,’ so Gavin sat down and
waited.

Harry came back: he seemed unable to meet Gavin’s eye, but wandered about, began stacking some cups and saucers which he picked off the coffee table and put on to a bookcase, and then
abandoned. He seemed unable to keep still. Finally, with his back to Gavin, he said: ‘You might as well know. Winthrop’s gone. Went last night. Left – no warning – just said
he was going, and went.’ His voice seemed to give out then, and there was a silence.

Then Gavin said: ‘But he’ll be back, won’t he, Harry?

You know he’ll be back.’

Harry turned round: he was hugging his elbows. He was trembling and his eyes were bright. ‘No. He’s gone off with Joan. They’re going to America. He won’t be
back.’

‘With
Joan
?’ He couldn’t believe it. ‘
With – Joan
?’

Harry nodded. Then he tried to say something, but he couldn’t.

Gavin said desperately: ‘There must be some mistake. She wouldn’t – ’ but he couldn’t go on because Harry made an awful dry sobbing sound and then seemed to lose
his breath altogether; stood, frowning, shutting and opening his eyes, wrenching his arms round himself, seized up with agony. For a moment Gavin was paralysed with the shock of it. Then he went to
Harry, put his arms round his rigid body and led him to a seat. With his arms still round Harry, he knelt by him until tears streamed from his friend’s eyes and he was able to weep.

After an unknown amount of time, Harry said: ‘I thought I’d got through that bit.’ His voice was husky. ‘It was telling you. It was like telling myself again.’

‘Yes.’

‘When he went – I looked at the time. I sort of collapsed for a bit. When I came to – he’d been gone half an hour.

I thought, “That’s not much: you’ve spent a lot of half-hours in your life without him – whole evenings often.” But they came to an end; he’d come back. This
half-hour’s just the beginning of forever.’ He looked at Gavin. ‘I loved him. He can’t have
known
, can he?’

‘I don’t know.’ He felt he knew nothing.

Harry said: ‘He’s been going out every night this week. He told me he was going to see her one evening. I thought he was just sorry for her; he said she’d had a bad shock.
Everybody knew she cared about Dmitri. I said: “Give her my love.” I wish I hadn’t said that now.’

‘It doesn’t matter.’

‘You know what I think? I think she’s
bought
him. He’s very impressionable and he always was attracted to excitement and high life. She bought Dmitri
really.’

‘Perhaps she’ll get tired of him.’

‘It won’t make any difference. He won’t come back.’ There was a short silence, and then he said, ‘They must have been planning it all this week. When I got back
from work last night, he was all packed up – waiting. “I’m off,” he said. I thought it was a joke at first – no, I didn’t – it never really felt like one
– I sort of knew it was true, but I couldn’t take it
in
.’

Fragments of post-mortem, attempts at analysis, pieces of anecdote, fresh, but more articulate outbursts of grief; his distress, like water, found any way that it could to pour out of him, and
Gavin, who began by feeling helpless in the face of such misery, ended by recognizing that all he could do was to be there. He discovered, bit by bit, that Harry had not slept, nor gone to work,
nor eaten since Winthrop had left, although he seemed very unclear about how he had spent the time. He had had coffee, he said; he had sat on the balcony for a while; he had got terribly cold; he
hadn’t been able to face the bedroom; Winthrop had left one of his records on the turntable, he had played that; he thought he had played it several times – he’d never liked that
sort of music, but he hadn’t been able to bring himself to put it away; he thought he’d leave the flat because they’d always been in it together; he’d run a bath at some
time or other, but there hadn’t seemed to be any point in having it – it must be stone cold by now . . .