Henry and Cato (26 page)

‘Oh awfully healthy. But I'm sorry to disappoint you, dear Mother—I am already engaged to be married to somebody else.'

Gerda moved away, turning towards her son. ‘Not—an American?'

‘No, an English girl. Her name is Stephanie Whitehouse. She's a prostitute.' Henry laughed wildly.

‘You're not serious,' said Gerda, after a pause. She was stiff, her hands thrust deep into her macintosh pockets, her legs in their muddy boots sturdily apart. Her dark eyes glowed fiercely. Henry moved a little further away. ‘Don't laugh now,' said Gerda.

‘I'm not laughing,' said Henry, glaring back. ‘Listen, Mother.'

‘Please don't joke about this.'

‘I'm not. This girl Stephanie Whitehouse was Sandy's mistress for years, she's a tart, he kept her in a London flat. You didn't know, did you?'

‘No,' said Gerda. She looked away.

‘Well, naturally not. Sandy kept her dark. In fact she's rather a marvellous person. And I love her.'

‘But you can't—you must have only just met her—'

‘Yes. But a lot has happened. One can be certain. Sandy treated her like a—'

‘Like what she is,' said Gerda, ‘according to you.' She was looking away into the distance, rigid with the attempt of self-control.

‘I'm sorry, Mother. I can't help bringing Sandy into it. Because of him I felt responsible. And then it all became so much more important—'

‘You have been behaving like a perfect fool. There is such a thing as depravity. This woman is after your money.'

‘Oddly enough,' said Henry, ‘I don't think there is such a thing as depravity. And there won't be any money.'

‘I don't know what you're talking about. I can't imagine that you're really serious. I think you've simply been affected—in some strange way—by this woman's connection with Sandy. You always used to copy what Sandy did. I suppose she's totally uneducated.'

‘Oh totally. But so are you.'

Gerda pressed her lips together. She turned round to look at him again, her glowing eyes, so like his own, full of unshed tears. ‘I don't want to quarrel with you, Henry.'

‘It is sometimes impossible not to quarrel. I'm sorry.'

‘I don't think you're serious. If you are—it seems to me—that you are not following your heart, but following some sort of— plan of cruelty.'

‘You know nothing about my heart,' said Henry. ‘You never did. You despised me and neglected me when I was a child.'

‘That's not true,' said Gerda softly. She wiped away the tears with the back of her hand. She said. ‘Do you mean to say that you are going to bring that woman here?'

‘There won't be any “here”.'

‘What do you mean?'

‘Mother, don't scream or faint or anything. And don't think I'm joking. I'm going to sell the place.'

‘Henry, what are you saying?'

‘Just this, Mother. I'm going to sell the Hall, the park, the cottages, and all the farm land. I do not want to be a landowner, I do not want to be an English country squire. I do not want to be a rich man. And I do not see why, out of piety to a tradition which I regard as stupid and wrong, I should sacrifice my life to these values, to these
things.
You've had your life here, Mother, and you've enjoyed it, at least I hope you have. I am not going to follow my grandfather and my father and Sandy. Why should I. I am a different person and I belong to a new age. Sandy belonged to the past. I don't. If you reflect you will see, see that there is nothing very extraordinary in what I say. I can't stay here and become a Sandy, even to please you. And if I go away, I'm still tied by these things, so long as they remain my property and my responsibility. To run away, to leave it to you, to leave it all to carry on as before, to keep this house, this useless land, all the money that lies behind it, as a sort of Marshalson mausoleum, would be not only frivolous but absolutely macabre. I didn't want this to happen, I didn't want to inherit the place, I didn't choose this fate, but now it's come about and I have to cope with it, I have to decide. Please don't accuse me of cruelty or of doing it out of any funny thing about Sandy or—I've never been more serious or more rational in my life. Mother, it's got to go, this way of life has got to go. When there are poor people and homeless people I can't just sit on all this property and all this money. I'm going to disperse it, I'm going to give it away. I can't live as you do. You care for trees and plants more than for people. Forgive me, I know it's a shock. But in a little while you'll see I'm right, or at least you'll understand—'

Gerda showed no signs of screaming or fainting. There were no tears now. She sat turned towards him, looking at him intently. With her wide nostrils expanded, her large face red, her shabby macintosh collar turned up about her hair, she looked suddenly strong and brutish, like a man. ‘Henry,' she said, ‘this is not going to happen.'

‘It is, Mother. Sorry. It's all planned. I've been into it with Merriman—'

‘With Merriman?'

‘Yes. I'm sorry. I had to ask him to keep it a secret. The whole estate can probably be on the market in a matter of weeks. Of course I shall make arrangements for you. I am having two of the Dimmerstone cottages made into a little house, it'll be very nice and there's quite a good garden. I shall give Bellamy his cottage and sell the others. You'll be comfortable in Dimmerstone, and it'll be away from the housing estate—'

‘The housing estate?'

‘Yes. I'm going to give the upper parkland on the Laxlinden side to the rural district council, on condition they build a model architect-designed council estate, in fact Giles Gosling has come up with a splendid plan, all faced with local stone—'

‘I don't think I want to hear about that,' said Gerda.

‘I don't want the place to be spoilt—'

Breathing hard, almost panting, but controlled, Gerda had turned away. She gazed down at her boots and began pushing the encrusted mud off with one finger. ‘And what does that girl—your—Sandy's friend— think of all this?'

‘Oh, she loves it,' said Henry. ‘She hates the rich! She's a communist!' He laughed again, crazily, curling his feet up under him upon the seat. ‘Oh God, I feel so relieved at having told you, Mother, don't think this has been easy—it's been a test and a challenge. Forgive me for thinking about myself here—about my integrity and my future—I couldn't compromise. I just couldn't. Please say you understand a little, you don't think it's just madness or—I don't know—revenge—or—You'll get used to it and see it's best. After all, you did things your way in your own time—and now it's my turn. Please say you're not angry.'

‘Revenge,' said Gerda thoughtfully, still busy with her boots. Then she said. ‘Oh, I can imagine that it hasn't been easy—'

At that moment Lucius arrived, having climbed up the terrace steps from the bottom. Ostentatiously puffing he laid his stick on the balustrade. ‘What a pull! I'm not as young as I was. Good morning, Henry. I'm afraid I was late for breakfast again. Well, my dear, what a lot of lovely flowers you've picked—' Lucius became aware that something was wrong, and stopped.

‘Henry is going to sell the estate,' said Gerda. ‘The Hall. Everything.'

Lucius threw back his head, and with careful deliberation undid the front of his overcoat, the buttons of his jacket, then of his shirt. He loosened the silk scarf around his neck. Then he took his hat off and ran his fingers carefully through his fine mane of white hair, tossing it back.

‘Did you hear?' said Gerda.

‘Yes, my dear.'

‘You don't seem very surprised. Perhaps he told you?'

‘No, no, he didn't. But—well—in these days—one must expect changes—'

‘I'm glad you understand so quickly that I really mean it,' said Henry to Gerda, ignoring Lucius. ‘Please don't think it's malice, it isn't, it's not like that at all. I've just got to survive—and of course I'll do all I can—'

‘I am to live in a cottage in Dimmerstone,' said Gerda to Lucius. ‘I don't think there are any plans for you.'

‘I suppose I can live with Audrey,' said Lucius. ‘I might get some sort of little job—it's not the end of the world.'

‘You see, he's not as feeble and pathetic as you imagine,' said Henry. ‘We shall all manage.'

‘Did you say I was feeble and pathetic?'

‘He asked if you were my lover,' said Gerda. ‘That was part of the reply.'

‘Well, I suppose I might be your lover, it isn't inconceivable—'

‘What about Rhoda?' said Gerda, to Henry.

‘I'll pension her off.'

‘No problem about Bellamy. John Forbes will snap him up, or else Mrs Fontenay.'

‘I'm glad you're both being so decent—'

‘When are you getting married?'

‘Oh, are you marrying Colette Forbes?'

‘No, I am not marrying Colette Forbes.'

‘He is marrying a prostitute called—What is she called?'

‘Stephanie Whitehouse.'

‘She was Sandy's mistress. Sandy kept her in a flat in London.'

‘
Did
he? What surprises one gets about people. I would never have dreamt—'

‘I don't know when I'm getting married. Soon.'

‘Fancy old Sandy—'

‘I'm going to lie down,' said Gerda. She got up abruptly and went into the house through one of the drawing-room windows.

Lucius said, ‘How long did Sandy—'

But Henry was gone. He had whirled on his heel and sped away down the steps, leaping down the first flight like a wild goat, and vanishing downwards in the direction of the lower terraces.

Lucius stood for a little while leaning on the balustrade and pressing his hand against his heart. He noticed that Henry in his speed had dislodged a large cushion of furry yellow moss from between the paving stones. With his toe Lucius pushed the moss back into place and patted it down. So disaster had come, more completely than he had ever imagined. At least he had behaved in a seemly manner and had had the grace to despair at once. If Henry were to offer him a small pension would he be humble enough to accept it? There could alas be little doubt about that. But Henry would not offer it. Henry obviously thought that he was a mere burden on Gerda. Gerda herself had probably told Henry so. As separate pains he felt distress at Gerda's contemptuous words, despair at her unspeakable defeat, helpless squirming rage against Henry. So Gerda could be defeated and the world could change; and what would now become of him? Rex would never let him live at Audrey's. He stooped and picked up Gerda's basket of flowers which she had left behind. Most of all the vision of a collapsed defeated Gerda appalled him and filled him with a child's terror. He went into the drawing-room.

Gerda was sitting facing the window, bolt upright in a chair, with fixed staring eyes. For a moment Lucius thought that she had had some kind of seizure.

‘Are you all right, my dear?'

‘Yes, of course. Shut the window, there's a frightful draught.'

‘So I'm feeble and pathetic. Well, I suppose I am. Did you tell Henry I was sponging on you?'

‘I can't remember. I may have done. I was annoyed at his assumption that you were my lover.'

‘I don't see why you should be annoyed.'

‘That's not important—Listen—'

‘It's important to me. Perhaps it
is
time that we parted!'

‘Oh stop being so
frivolous,
Lucius.'

‘I think it's very brave the way you've accepted it—and come to that, the way I've accepted it.'

‘I haven't accepted it,' said Gerda.

‘You think Henry's not serious?'

‘Oh, he's serious. He's been influenced by that woman. But it's not going to happen. We are going to prevent it.'

My dear Cato,

I am sorry you went. I'm sorry I lectured you, I got everything wrong. As for the boy, that was just a hunch. Maybe kicking over the traces and loving him is the way to save him. Who knows? I certainly don't. Why don't you bring him here? I could even put up both of you if necessary. Anyway, please come back and for God's sake don't now regard me as the Inquisitor's clerk! I had to say a word about this in higher quarters, but no one got excited, you know how they take things. Your antics are likely to be ignored for the present, so don't feel that you have to decide anything quickly or that, by running away, you have in fact decided. It's not so easy to get
out
of that net, my dear, and of course I don't mean the stupid old order or even,
sub specie temporis,
the odious old church. Fishes move in the sea, birds in the air, and by rushing about you do not escape from the love of God. I feel inclined to say: don't even worry about the priesthood. I mean, you could give
that
up and not lose your religion. Though, on the other hand, I also feel inclined to say: for
you,
being in God is being a priest. If ever I have seen a priest I see one in you. And though it may seem almost frivolous to say so, you did make a solemn promise. Do not reject the one who made that promise, be faithful at least a little longer, wait to be taught. The spirit as experience, as vision, as joy will return. Wait. I am not belittling your ‘intellectual crisis'. We are intellectuals, we have to undergo these crises, in fact to undergo them is an essential part of our task. We have to suffer for God in the intellect, go on and on taking the strain. Of course we can never be altogether in the truth, given the distance between man and God how could we be? Our truth is at best a shadowy reflection, yet we must never stop trying to understand. You know all this, Cato. I am not saying that you should not ‘wrestle', but that you should do it inside the church, close to what you once felt so certain about. You said ‘Christ invaded my life'. Whatever it was that happened then,
something
happened. You have not just ‘made a mistake'. Hold on and accept change with the openness of faith and the hope of grace. Do not run, do not hide, stay beside your revelation and be faithful to it as it renews itself. For this is what will happen if you will only wait. There is a mystical life of the church to which we must subdue ourselves even in our doubts. Do not puzzle your mind with images and ideas which you know can be only the merest glimmerings of Godhead. Stay. Sit. You cannot escape from God. And meantime let your task of priesthood hold you. Say mass even if you feel it's
really
‘hocus pocus'! And come back here. Ever,
in Christo,
yours with love,

Brendan

My dear son,

Brendan has told me of your troubles, I hope you do not mind his telling me. As you may know, I have been ill. Will you not come and see me? I was worried and saddened to hear that you had been speaking of leaving the order. Do not hasten to decide, and do not mistrust the revelation that led you to God. You saw Him then in a clarity and with a gladness that is denied to many who are holy. Abide for this time in that former assurance. Darkness comes to us all and we must attempt humbly to guard the flame of faith in our hearts when there is no light. Do not strain anxiously after any new certainty. Your will power can do nothing. Your task is love and love is your teacher, rest there and wait quietly to be shown truth. You know I am not a learned man, or a philosopher or a theologian like Brendan, who I'm sure can argue with you far better. I cannot argue, only point to Him who is our way and our truth and our life. Look
there
to Christ and see the living truth of perfect love. There all speech is silence, and there is all that matters and is needful. In charity and austerity of soul, hold to what you know to be precious and holy in your life, my dear child. I would be happy if I thought that you were with Brendan and not alone. If it is not too difficult, please come and see me. I hope you can read this shaky writing. May God bless you, dear Cato, and keep you safe within His wisdom.

Your loving friend,

J. Milsom

With these two letters in his pocket Cato was knocking on the door of a little ground floor flat in Holland Park. It was late afternoon, a murky yellowish light, raining slightly. His cassock was wet. He had been unable to find his umbrella.

The door opened a little on a chain and a woman's voice inside said ‘Yes?'

‘Mrs Beckett?'

‘Yes. What do you want?'

‘I'm Father Forbes. You remember, I called on you once before. I'm a friend of Joe's.'

‘Of who?'

‘Joe. Joseph. Your son. May I come in?'

The door closed. There was a scraping sound as the chain was removed, then the door was not opened but left ajar and Cato heard the slip-slop of the woman's slippered feet receding. Taking this as an invitation to enter he followed her into a dark narrow passage, closed the door and moved towards a lighted room ahead.

Mrs Beckett was removing from the table a half empty flagon of red wine and a glass. There was a smell of wine in the room.

Cato said, ‘I'm sorry to trouble you. I hoped I'd find you back from the school.'

‘The school? I don't go there any more.'

Having put the wine away inside a small sideboard, Mrs Beckett turned to face Cato. She had a black eye and extensive bruising down the side of her face. Her lip was swollen. Cato had seen enough in Notting Hill to know what this betokened and to make no comment.

Although it was light outside the curtains had been pulled and the room was lit by one little green-shaded lamp. Mrs Beckett sat down heavily at the table. Cato sat down opposite her.

‘Which of them did you say it was?'

‘What—oh, of your sons—Joe. You remember I called on you—'

‘I don't remember. You people are all alike. One was here last week collecting money for something. They never leave you alone, it's like the secret police, you're always being pestered and spied on. I suppose they keep a list. I'm not in the church any more, that's all finished, done with.'

‘I don't want to pester you,' said Cato. ‘And I won't keep you.'

‘You'd better not. If he finds you here he'll arrange you like he's arranged me. I suppose Joe's in trouble.'

‘Not yet, but he probably will be. He hasn't got a job and my guess is that he's living on petty crime—'

‘That's fine, let him stick to petty crime! His brothers are all in big crime.'

‘I'll be brief, Mrs Beckett.'

‘Dominic's in prison, Pat and Fran have emigrated, at least I suppose they have, they said they were going to and I haven't heard in years, Benedict's being kept by a tart in Birmingham, and Damian died of drugs in January.'

‘I'm so sorry—'

‘Oh don't be sorry, I don't care, he only came here to curse me. What's this about Joe?'

‘I wondered if you had any influence over him, if there would be any point in your trying to see him and—'

‘No. Just no. Would you like some wine?' Mrs Beckett tilted her chair and reached back to retrieve the flagon of red wine. Sighing heavily she got up and found two glasses.

‘Not for you? Mind if I do?'

‘I wondered if there was anyone in his family who could help, even get him away for a holiday—'

‘It sounds as if his life's all holiday. There isn't any family. My brother doesn't want to know. The rest are lost, God knows where they are, or rather it's me that's lost. I think you'd better go now. God, I feel so tired.'

Cato looked at Mrs Beckett. Her straggling dark hair was full of slides and clips and she had put lipstick onto her swollen mouth. Her hand trembled as she held the glass. She looked at her trembling hand. She said again, ‘Oh God, I feel so tired.' Tears filled her eyes and lapped out a little onto her cheeks.

‘Mrs Beckett, forgive me for speaking to you, but I am a priest and you are, whatever you say, a Catholic. I came to talk about Joe, but how I wish that I could help you. You must find your way back to hope and joy again. The way is open if you will only take it. The way is Christ, the hope is Christ. Take your burdens there and receive His love, hide yourself in His love and be healed. Don't despair. Whatever has happened, the world can be made new and good again. Come to church, why not, come to mass. I don't know what your troubles are and I didn't come here to question you or to pester you. But I wish so heartily and so humbly that I could help you. Come to church sometime, just sit there perhaps. The love of God is with you if you will just breathe quietly and let it fill you.'

‘Fuck off,' said Mrs Beckett, still staring at her glass which was now jolting in her hand. ‘Otherwise you'll meet him. And don't come back. If you want to be kind to me, don't come back.'

‘About Joe—'

‘Don't bother me with Joe. I hate Joe. I hate all my children, they hate me.'

‘Go to church. Just look at our Lord, just speak to Him. Or think about Him here. He is here too, at this table, in this wine. God bless you. Forgive me.'

Cato blundered out into the dark corridor and out at the front door into the street, where the lamps had just been turned on. As he came out he ran into a burly man who was just about to enter the house. The man, who smelt of drink, made a vomiting noise, then spat onto the front of Cato's cassock. The door banged.

Cato hurried away down the blue darkening street under the lamplight. It was still raining. He turned the corner. There was an Anglican church a little distance away and he hurried to it and entered. He sat down at the back in the darkness, sensing the desolate empty feeling of the bare rather damp church. How quickly and easily the patter had all come out. But now he knew no other words of consolation and if these words were false then there was no consolation. He drew out Father Milsom's letter to read it again, but it was too dark to see. He took the letter out of the envelope and held it to his face, pressing it against his mouth.

Henry was awake in the early morning. Or perhaps it was not so early, as there was a long sparkle of sun at the top of the curtains. He could not look at his watch because his arm was around Stephanie Whitehouse who was still asleep. They must have lain like this embraced all night, how touching. And how unlike anything that had ever happened to him in his life before. Last night, or as it must have been, this morning, had been their third occasion of making love, but this was their first night together. Of course he had spent nights with women before, though not so very many. But he had never done so with such a quiet unanxious untalkative sense of inevitability and rightness. He knew that this lack of fear was partly brought about by Stephanie's dependent status. She was the prisoner of his will, and in her humble little way she both exhibited and rejoiced in her captive state. Henry had often heard about women's ‘intuition', but he had never experienced it before. Perhaps in the case of Bella and those smart campus girls intuition had been eroded by intellect.

But his unanxious satisfaction did not consist simply in his sense of ‘owning' Stephanie. Sandy had spoken of her
femme fatale
charm. This seemed to Henry a coarse title for what he discerned in her. For him she was more like a mysterious silent woman encountered in a temple with whom it becomes quietly evident that by the god's will you must couch. Never had Henry felt more blessedly devoid of alternatives. He felt himself curiously reminded of a picture of Max's, in which a man is tied upside down to a beautiful lamp-bearing woman. What perfectly ridiculous images old Max could invent. The odd thing, it had earlier occurred to Henry, was that although the man has his hands bound and has perhaps been stabbed in the back, he appears to be quite comfortable in his unusual position! The woman presses one caressing hand to his thigh as she peers through the lamplit dark. Her face now reminded him very slightly of Stephanie's. And he was now aware that he had always a little identified himself with the comfortable upside-down man. So it turned out that in an upside-down way he was her captive, not she his.

Of course Stephanie was not beautiful and she was not young. How strangely and mysteriously evident was the ageing of the body. A weariness in the breasts, in the buttocks, a certain coarsening and staleness of the flesh, proclaim the years as much as lines and wrinkles can. Bella, who had always been very sensitive about her possible nineteen-year-old rivals, had talked a lot about this, only fastidious Henry had shut his ears. Now, holding Stephanie Whitehouse in his arms, he apprehended her lack of youthfulness with compassion and pleasure. He could see, looking carefully at the roots of her hair, that it was dyed. Her face, disfigured by the two harsh lines which framed her mouth and which sleep had failed to smooth, looked older now. Of course her make-up had been worn away by his kisses. A defensive seductive alertness which waking she wore as a mask was touchingly absent. She moved slightly, and one heavy soft breast nestled against him. He felt the sudden blazing warmth of her thigh against his leg. She murmured something and her face twitched. He wondered: does she think she is with Sandy now? The idea did not distress him, but on the contrary made him feel visionary, serene, full of mercy.

The scene with his mother, after which he had, without seeing her again, driven to London, had shaken him in unexpected ways. He was not of course deceived by his mother's sarcastic show of acceptance. He knew that he had struck her a terrible blow and that he must, for this, bear a heavy responsibility. He knew too that he was only at the beginning of learning what it was exactly that he was up to. He had no doubts about the Tightness of his plan. That he had no doubts was the absolute prerequisite of a drastic move. He was committing a sort of murder. Matricide, in fact. But he was saved and justified by, again, the absence of alternatives. Henry felt like a man into whose hands a huge crippling weight had suddenly been put. He had to drop it, however much damage that would cause. (Max could have painted that.) He could not, morally, spiritually, psychologically become the person into which that odious ownership would make him. He had always hated possessions, always wanted to travel light and live a stripped life, and was he now to be crippled by a sentiment about an ancestral home? Giving away the money would be easy. It was, admittedly, the traditional part of the picture which threatened to hold him, and not just because it sometimes seemed monstrous to ask his mother to live in Dimmerstone. Yet after all he could coldly judge the irrationality of the bond which still tied him to Laxlinden; and could he not make a similar judgement for her? She had enjoyed the Hall; but most elderly people have to accept some diminution in their lives. His mother was old enough for such a change and certainly young enough not to be slaughtered by it. In the longer run the challenge might even do her good. She would be so determined to show her son that she was undamaged that she would perhaps discover, in her diminished scene, quite new sources of the joy of life.