Henry and Cato (21 page)

‘Who to?'

‘Anyone. To the Laxlinden Rural District Council, to Shelter, to Oxfam, to the National Art Collections Fund, to you, to that boy with the golden hair—'

‘To me?'

‘Yes, to finance your next mission, or whatever it's called. Why not? You could use money, couldn't you?'

‘Yes, but—'

‘Can't you see that I just want to
get rid
of it all?'

‘All right, and may be you should get rid of plenty of it and do some good, but I don't think you ought to sell the house and—'

‘Why ever not? What value are you defending here? Because bloody Marshalsons have lived at the Hall ever since—?'

‘Not while your mother's alive. And somehow—yes, I am surprised—your childhood home—'

‘Cato, you make me ill! My childhood home! I loathed my childhood, most people do. Do you care tuppence for Pennwood?'

‘Well, not exactly— but I'd like to see Colette living there one day with her husband and children.'

‘Colette with— Cato, you shock me, I thought you'd applaud.'

‘You should consider your mother.'

‘Why?'

‘Because she's your mother.'

‘As far as I'm concerned she just counts as one.'

‘That can't be true. And I think you're rushing into this in some insane frame of mind, you haven't really seen what you're doing. Why don't you wait?'

‘Because I might change my mind.'

‘Well, there you are.'

Henry was still leaning forward, his lips moist and weirdly smiling. He reached out a hand and touched the black stuff of the cassock, caressed it a moment. ‘Yes, but don't you see. I know I'm in the truth now. I
know.
'

‘It's all so irrevocable, so destructive—'

‘Destructive, yes. But there are good destructions, Cato. You know, you do shock me. You are a holy priest, you possess nothing yourself, but it seems that in a deep way you've still got an old irrational reverence for property.'

‘Oh maybe—I don't care if I have, after all there's property and property. I just feel you're tearing things to pieces for the sake of doing so, and if you even admit you'll regret it later—'

‘I said if I didn't sell now I might change my mind. That's different. Cato, I don't want to let myself become the person who will change my mind. I don't want that property to
get
me, I don't want to be corrupted by it, I don't want to give it my precious life.'

‘I don't see why you'd have to give it your precious life. You could be teaching art history in Edinburgh. You could even go back to America.'

‘No. If it continues to exist it will get me. I don't want to become like Sandy, a sort of playboy, keeping a tart in a flat and—'

‘I don't imagine Sandy kept tarts in flats!'

‘No, I'm just generalizing. I mean a sort of bloody useless squire with a yacht and a racing car and fussing about my plants and trees—'

‘But, Henry, why should you become like that?'

‘My mother's living in a sort of feudal dream world. It's all false, it's a lie, and I'm going to smash it up.'

‘I think one should go easy on smashing other people's lies. Better to concentrate on one's own. There are hundreds of things you can do with the place. Why not compromise? There's even a sort of innocence in having property, you could work on it, modify it, develop it—'

‘I'm surprised to hear
you
suggesting making a god out of material possessions! No, I hate the whole bloody set-up, I hate it and I'm not going to become part of it. Didn't Jesus say sell all you have and give to the poor?'

‘Yes. But listen, consider your motives.'

‘And he didn't say do it from the highest motives.'

‘No, but he thought that motives were important.'

‘When?'

‘When the woman broke the vase of very precious ointment.'

‘He was just answering the skin-flints. And he didn't say to her like you're saying, wait, think it over, this stuff is valuable—'

‘So you admit your motives are lousy?'

‘I can't be bothered with them. Of course they're complex.'

‘You're taking revenge.'

‘Who on?'

‘On your mother. On your father. On Sandy.'

‘There'll be a certain satisfaction,' said Henry, ‘I don't deny it.' He drew his feet up under him and stared at Cato, cat-like, electric, fascinated by himself.

‘Don't do it. It's a crime. As you're doing it, it's a crime.'

‘Maybe. But my guilt won't rub off on the money. Money's clean.'

‘You have a duty to your mother.'

‘Didn't you have a duty to your father?'

‘You'll plunge her into misery.'

‘You underestimate her. She'll pick herself up and live to be the scourge of Dimmerstone.'

‘And somehow you'll wreck yourself.'

‘I'm saving myself. My mother and that place together could just about digest me.'

‘You want to destroy the past. You must wait.'

‘I can't wait, Cato, and I won't. I want to dump this load. Christ, you gave up the world, why can't I?'

‘You aren't necessarily called to do what I'm called to do.'

‘That sounds like spiritual pride.'

‘You're filled with hate. I can feel it now, like electricity.'

‘Cato, I don't believe in God and you do. Perhaps that makes the difference. I don't think anything very coherent goes on in my soul. There aren't any witnesses. Of course it's full of old irrational rubbish, the sort of muck people love picking over in psychoanalysis. I don't care. The thing is to act decently and make practical plans for going on doing so. Can't you see?'

‘I see what you mean,' said Cato reluctantly, ‘but—'

There was a faint creaking sound on the landing outside and Cato, suddenly blushing, got up. ‘Oh hang!'

Henry rose.

Cato opened the door and Beautiful Joe sidled in, smiling.

‘Oh hello,' said Henry, ‘it's you.'

‘Hello, it's me.'

‘Well, I'll be off,' said Henry. ‘My car's probably been arrested by now, it's on a yellow line.' They stood awkwardly. ‘Could you let me have your new address? Try to see my point, Cato.'

‘Try to see mine. Don't do anything yet.' Cato wrote down the address.

‘I can't think why you care so much. Ah well. Good-bye, Cato. Good-bye—I've forgotten your name—'

‘Joe.'

‘Good-bye, Joe.' Henry vanished.

Cato uttered an incoherent exclamation and sat down on the bed. Joe swung the chair round and sat down on it astride, leaning his chin on the back.

‘I say, does that rich guy really want to get rid of his cash?'

‘So you were listening?'

‘Yes, a bit. I didn't want to bust in, you know. But does he really want to give it away?'

‘No,' said Cato. ‘He'll change his mind. People who have a lot of money very rarely give it away. Some invisible hand prevents them.'

Cato felt so agitated he wanted to cry out incoherently. He was angry with himself because he had been upset by Henry and had not been able to argue with him effectively or even to understand why he felt so disturbed. He was annoyed with Henry for having come. He had wanted to wait peacefully for Beautiful Joe's arrival, to think about Joe and to welcome him calmly. There was some crucially important illuminating thought about Joe which would have come to him if only he could have waited quietly instead of being interrupted and annoyed by Henry. ‘Oh
hell
!' said Cato.

‘What's the matter, Father?'

‘Nothing. I'm tired.'

‘He thinks the world of you, doesn't he, that chap, the gent?'

‘I don't know. We're old friends.'

‘You're going away,' said Joe. ‘You've packed your case.'

Cato stared at the boy while Beautiful Joe's enlarged yellowish eyes blinked through the glasses, looked and looked away. He had evidently just washed his hair and, neatly combed, it stood out a little round his head like a wirey golden wig. He had tilted his chair and was swinging it upon two legs, casting a grotesque shadow upon the stained wallpaper.

Cato had a quick fantasy. He would reach out one hand, grasp the back of the chair and gently pull it. Joe, understanding, would shift the chair, jerking it forward like a wooden horse. Cato's arms would reach out around the boy's neck, the radiant golden hairs suddenly outspread upon the dark stuff of the cassock. Joe would sigh and drop his head forward onto the priest's bosom, and the chair would slip sideways to the ground. Awkwardly embraced they would fall back together onto the bed.

‘What are you thinking, Father?'

‘About you.'

‘What about me?'

‘Don't get yourself into any awful trouble.'

‘I won't. I promise!' The glinting screwed up eyes, bright with youth and dishonesty and laughter, returned Cato's gaze. ‘When are you going?'

‘Tomorrow.'

‘Where to?'

Cato was silent.

‘You will give me your address?'

Cato said after a moment, ‘No.'

‘But you gave it to him. Father, you're not—leaving me—you're not going to abandon me, are you?'

‘No.'

‘Then, why? Are you afraid I'll come round with the gang?'

‘What gang?'

‘I'm just joking. But why won't you tell me?'

‘I'll write to you at your mother's.'

‘I don't want to go to her for your letter, Father. I'd rather do without.'

‘Then you'll do without.'

There was a tense silence, Joe rocking the chair, Cato quiet upon the bed. Cato's legs were trembling, he hoped invisibly.

Joe said, ‘I care for you a lot, Father, you know that. You're about the only person I do care for. But you're like so hostile to me now, you know you sort of tease me and reject me. You make me feel all anxious and frustrated. Why can't you be open and honest with me, or do you really think I'm bad? I wish you wouldn't go away. You ought to stay here with
us,
not go away to
them.
You will come back, won't you? Will you promise? Will you promise not to leave me ever?'

‘Joe, I can't promise anything,' said Cato. ‘You know I care for you. Oh God—'

Joe tilted the chair abruptly back onto the floor. ‘Father, it isn't good-bye, is it?'

‘No, no.'

‘You can always write to me care of the corner shop.'

There was silence. Cato's desire to touch the boy was so intense, he lifted up his right hand and looked at it with amazement. If he now took Beautiful Joe in his arms would it be a means of salvation or simply the end of any possibility of grace?'

‘Aren't you taking
Him
with you?' Joe, now suddenly smiling, was looking up above Cato's head at the metal crucifix which hung over the bed.

Cato realized that he had not thought about it. ‘Yes.'

‘I'll get him down.'

In a second Joe had sprung up onto the bed. Cato rose quickly and stood aside. The boy handed down the crucifix to him. For a moment, one at each end, they both held it. ‘Wouldn't do to forget Him, would it, Father?'

‘We must never forget Him,' said Cato. ‘Joe, hold onto your faith, won't you. You were born to it. It's so precious. Hold onto Christ. Never mind what it means. Just hold on. Now go please. I promise I will write to you. God bless you, dear Joe.'

The boy, who had leapt lightly to the floor, stood for a moment and his eyes were suddenly guileless and vulnerable, childish, ready for tears. Then he lightly touched the sleeve of the black cassock and left the room without a word.

Cato laid the crucifix down on the pillow and sat down beside it upon the bed. He buried his face in his hands. As the great sea of emotion gradually became calm he began to feel a deep refreshing happiness.

Gerda was standing in the ballroom. It was rather dark and full of people. She was wearing a long white dress and a white lace shawl and white evening gloves, and feeling expectant and excited. She could see the garden visible in a lurid green twilight outside. Sandy in evening dress was coming towards her through the throng and she felt intense joy. So he is not dead, she thought, I only dreamed that he was dead. It was just a nightmare after all. He came up to her and without speaking lightly took her two hands and, in a space cleared by the guests, they began to dance. There was no music but a kind of throbbing sound. Gerda understood that it was a Scottish dance and that she must watch Sandy's feet and copy his movements exactly. It is some sort of magic spell she thought, and if I make any mistake something dreadful will happen. It was difficult to dance because it was becoming very damp underfoot and now they were dancing on wet stones. Sandy let go of her hands and moved away down some steps to where a motor boat was waiting. Gerda could see the steps far down under the water. Sandy stepped lightly into the boat, which ducked at his weight. Gerda tried to follow, but felt an iron bar across her breast. Sandy held up a warning hand. I must have got the dance wrong, thought Gerda with anguish. He started the motor which throbbed with some deep silent rhythm. As the boat drew away she could still see Sandy's white shirt front glowing in the darkness. She clutched at the iron bar and screamed.

She awoke with the cry upon her lips, not sure if she had uttered it. The sense of Sandy's presence was so intense she lay still for a moment and let it overwhelm her. Then she sat up. She could see from the curtains that it was getting light. Feeling stiff and heavy she pushed back the bedclothes and put her feet down, still clutched by the dream. Reluctant to turn on a lamp, she hobbled across to the window and pulled back a curtain to look at her watch. It was a quarter to six. She looked out at the garden, looking across the sloping lawn to the grove of the big trees. Above them a half moon was still bright. The garden was present but colourless and utterly quiet, still wrapped in the dissolving mystery of its night life, not yet animated by the simplicity of day. Gerda, in her flimsy nightdress, shivered with cold. Then with a gasp she saw a dark motionless figure standing upon the lawn, a little to her right, and gazing up the hill towards the trees. The figure was nothing but a black smudge, but Gerda knew from its shape and its unmistakable attitude that it was Henry. Fearing to be seen, she stepped quickly away from the window and went back to sit upon her bed. Awful dread and misery rose up in her heart. She could still feel the light touch of Sandy's fingers as he tried to guide her through the complicated dance. She shuddered with fear, fear for herself, for her sanity, for her continued being. She thought of the awful desolation of old age and death which she could share with no one. Tears welled up and filled her eyes and her throat and she lay back moaning upon the bed.