Henry and Cato (45 page)

C

About fifteen minutes later Henry, having run along the north drive and climbed the gate, was panting outside the door of Pennwood. He was sweating and had a violent stitch in his side. He wished passionately that the girl had not written to him. But of course he had to come and see her, see her and get it over. Oh damn
damn.
He stood at the door, trying to stop panting and gasping before he knocked.

John Forbes opened the door and seemed surprised and not very pleased to see him. ‘Oh—good morning, Henry. What can we do for you?'

‘Could I see Colette?' said Henry.

‘Well—she's a bit knocked out.'

‘Could I see her, please?'

‘I'll ask her,' said John Forbes, leaving Henry at the door. He returned in a moment, pointed towards the sitting-room. ‘Don't stay long.'

Henry knocked softly, then entered.

He had not seen the room for many years. It was exactly the same as when he and Cato used to sit there eating crisps and drinking coke. He recalled the dove-grey room, the grey photographs of Greece, the grey Copenhagen china and the artificial flowers in the fireplace. He saw in a vision what a quiet sweet innocent room it was. And there in the window, lying in an armchair with her feet up on a stool, half covered with a blue and white check rug, was Colette. She looked very strange, older, very pale, and at first Henry thought that her hair had been cut. But it had just been severely pulled back and plaited, and the plait stowed away behind a cushion. Her prominent brow was wrinkled, pitted almost, with strain, and the pupils of her eyes were dilated. She was wearing a sort of plaid dressing gown jacket and a striped shirt underneath it. One hand was at her face when he entered, and when she lowered it he saw that one cheek was covered by a bulky dressing kept in place by sticking plaster.

Colette did not smile and neither did Henry. Her mouth drooped and he felt his droop, as if he were looking into a mirror. She was sitting with her back to the window and he seemed to feel rather than see the huge anxiety of her eyes. He felt an extraordinary combination of anguish and of something within him relaxing as if an exhausted man should find relief in falling. He came to her and took her outstretched hand. They shook hands.

‘Thank you for coming so soon.'

‘Not at all.'

‘Do sit down.'

Henry pulled up a chair.

‘It's not too hot in here? Shall I turn the fire off? I can't seem to get warm any more.'

‘No, it's fine. How are you feeling?'

‘Oh, all right. Look, I wanted to talk to you.'

Henry sat stiff, scarcely breathing, gazing.

‘It's about Cato.'

‘Oh.' Henry looked away, inspected a photo of the Parthenon. He heard his breath emerging in an absurd puff.

‘I must talk quickly, otherwise Daddy will come in—you see—oh I don't want to be a nuisance—you're the only person I can talk to, I want you to go and see Cato.'

‘Of course,' said Henry, ‘I'll do anything you want me to do.'

‘You see—I'm afraid Cato may go mad.'

‘Oh come—he won't do that.'

‘You know that Joe died?'

‘Yes.'

Colette was silent for a moment biting her lip. Oh don't cry, Henry thought. Then he thought, yes, cry, cry bitterly, and I will cry too.

Colette did not cry. ‘It's not that Cato has broken down, not yet anyway. He's been wonderful. Do you know that he went to see Mrs Beckett, and he
told
her?'

‘Mrs Beckett?'

‘Joe's mother.'

‘That was good of him.'

‘Yes, wasn't it? But I'm so afraid—'

‘Where was this place where they kept you prisoner, what was it like when—?'

‘It was underneath that waste land by the Mission. I thought it was miles away, we must have walked in a circle, then he blindfolded me. The bulldozers had uncovered the entrance but they'd closed it with corrugated iron. It was part of some top secret place during the war—'

‘But how did you get out, and how—Your father told Lucius a bit and—'

‘He doesn't know it all, and the newspapers just mixed it—oh at the end Cato was lying in some sort of faint after he—hit Joe—and Joe was unconscious and I—put some clothes on—'

‘God.'

‘And ran out and found a telephone box and then the police and the ambulance came and—But that's not what I wanted to tell you. You see, it's about Cato, I'm so afraid he'll find out, or that he may have already, and that will drive him mad—'

‘Find out what?'

‘What really happened. You see, the police were wonderful, they were so kind, and they understood—'

‘Colette, do be calm, what is this all about?'

‘The police didn't tell him, or they said they wouldn't, and I want you to see him and—of course you can't ask—but I do want to be sure that he doesn't know—'

‘Doesn't know
what?
'

‘That there wasn't any gang—it was all—oh almost a joke—there was only Joe—oh I know it was awful because he made you come and bring all that money, and he somehow terrorized Cato, but he said if Cato had only resisted he wouldn't have hurt him, he'd have told him the truth and laughed—'

‘Wait, wait, you mean it wasn't the mafia or—?'

‘No! There wasn't anybody but Joe. And—oh Henry—it was all my fault, that's what's so awful awful awful, and I've got to live with it for ever and tell nobody.' Tears now came, not frenzied but in a slow stream.

‘Colette—my dear—stop—'

‘I won't cry. I mustn't. You see he was kind and sweet and—not awful at all—I was so sorry for him—and he
told
me, he told me he wasn't going to hurt Cato and it was a sort of hoax all the time—'

‘That mightn't have been true,' said Henry. ‘You resisted and he hurt you.'

‘Yes, but that was different—'

‘And mightn't that have been a lie too, about it being only him, just a cover-up for the others?'

‘No, no, it was true, it was true, the way it came out, and there was never any evidence of any others, and I saw at once, afterwards, that Cato must never know, and at first I thought I wouldn't tell the police what Joe had said, but then I saw I must tell them because otherwise they'd be looking for accomplices and a gang that didn't exist, so I told them everything but I asked them not to tell Cato—'

‘Well, I'm jolly relieved to hear there isn't a gang,' said Henry. ‘I thought they might have it in for me for telling the police. Wouldn't Cato be relieved too?'

‘But then, don't you
see,
he'll think he killed Joe for nothing, he'll think if only he'd been braver—but really it wasn't his fault, it was my fault, if only I'd been more intelligent, if only I hadn't screamed—'

‘What did happen exactly?'

‘Joe was—oh he was talking about how we'd all go to Leeds—'

‘All go to
Leeds?
'

‘Yes, you know Cato's got a job there, or had, and he wanted Joe to go with him only Joe wouldn't, and then Joe said to me we'd all go and we'd live there on your money and I'd be his girl—'

‘Oh
Christ.
'

‘And he said would I and I said yes—'

‘But you didn't mean it?!'

‘No, well, it was all mad, but I felt so sorry for him, I pitied him so much, and somehow he was sweet, really sweet, and he was talking about how we'd live together the three of us—He could have been saved somehow, anyway I don't think he was really a criminal at all, and he did love Cato and Cato loved him—Perhaps we could all have been friends—I know this sounds crazy, but you must try to love people even when it's hard or awfully odd—and now he's dead and I can't help him any more.'

‘Colette, don't be sentimental, that boy was a
rat—
'

‘That's what Daddy says, but it isn't so—And then all the time he was saying would I only let him make love to me and then he'd let Cato go and of course I said I would let him—'

‘And did you?'

‘I meant to—oh God if only I had. I should simply have loved him and let him do anything. I think I did sort of half love him, but it wasn't enough. And then at the last moment just out of stupid sort of—cowardice—and female instinct—I started fighting and screaming, and then Cato broke open his door and came and—killed Joe.'

‘But Joe was knifing you—that's what I heard.'

‘Well, I hope that's what Cato thinks. I let him think that he'd really rescued me, saved my life. That's what he
must
think, otherwise he'll go mad. You see, Joe had the knife in his hand, but I'm sure he didn't mean to hurt me, it was an accident, only I was struggling so and he was so excited—oh if only I'd been sensible enough to just let him do it, and kept
talking
to him, but I lost my nerve and—oh if only I hadn't screamed, if only Cato hadn't managed to get out—'

‘Hold up, Colette. You can't know Joe wouldn't have killed you or Cato in the end.'

‘I know he wouldn't, I
knew
him in that time we were together. But now you do see what I want, I want you to see Cato, don't say I told you anything, just see what he says and see what he's
like.
He's so fond of you, I'm sure he'll break down and tell you
everything
and then you'll know if he knows. I'd be so relieved if you'd see him anyway, it would make me feel better. I'm sure he doesn't want to see me, he feels—you know— that he can't face me yet—that's why he hasn't come home—and he can't face Daddy. And I know he feels
awful
about having written those letters—'

‘Does your father know exactly what happened?'

‘Not exactly. He knows there was no gang, the police told him that, and he won't tell Cato. But I haven't really told him, like I told you, I
can't—
Oh Henry, it's so awful, I've never been inside such a nightmare in my life, I've never imagined such a nightmare, it's like torture, it's like a machine, and I keep going over and over everything that happened and thinking if only I'd done differently I could have spared that poor boy and not driven Cato mad—'

‘Steady, steady. You won't break down, Colette.'

‘No. I know I won't. But Henry, you will see Cato? He loves you and he'll tell you everything.'

‘I'm not sure about either of those propositions.'

‘Oh—and—Henry—'

‘What is it, my dear?'

The bright sun, reflected from the white wall of the garden, made a clear soft light in the dove-grey room, and Colette's face was illuminated with a soft intense clarity. She looked, thought Henry, like a boy on a ship, a young gunner of Nelson's day, a child who yet had seen blood. What an odd image, he thought, and he thought, how beautiful she is.

‘When are you getting married?'

Henry looked out at the sunlit garden, neat as a room. ‘In a couple of weeks. In London.'

‘Ah. Good. And then to America?'

‘Yes.'

‘I hope you'll both be very happy,' said Colette, and her words were a farewell. She shifted, patting her bandaged cheek, sitting up a little and pulling out her plait, and Henry shifted, made to rise, and rose. He stared down at her, willing her to look at him, but she would not.

‘Henry. I must apologize for that lunatic letter I wrote to you and for saying all those dotty things to Stephanie that day in the car. Of course it was all nonsense and I didn't mean it, I realized that later. I was just a child then. I'm sorry—'

‘Not at all—'

‘I thought—I felt—it might relieve your mind to know I'm not in love with you—I never was—I didn't know what the words meant—'

‘Well, of course it does, it's good of you to tell me—'

‘It's so tiresome when you think that somebody—anyway—that's that—So the Hall is to be sold?'

‘Yes.'

‘And your mother will live in Dimmerstone. Give her my love. I hope I'll see her, well, of course I will—'

There was a moment's silence, Colette, who had been fiddling with the tassels of the rug looked quickly up, then they both spoke at once.

‘What—sorry?'

‘I—No, you say.'

‘I was just going to say—well—what's Cato's address in London?'

‘Oh yes. He's at Brendan Craddock's flat, Father Craddock you know. It's in the telephone book.'

‘Thanks. I'm afraid I may not be coming back here after I leave, but I'll make sure to see Cato and I'll write and let you know how he is.'

‘How kind—'

‘Well, good-bye, Colette. I don't suppose we'll meet again. Unless maybe—you'll look us up if you're ever in Illinois.'

‘I'll do that. Good-bye, Henry, and thank you.'

She gave him a firm hand shake, looking him now in the eyes. Henry shuddered for a moment with the possibility of kissing her hand. Then it was too late, and he turned away, went to the door, waved nonchalantly and went out.

He made straight for the front door and let himself out. As he was closing it behind him a shadow fell, and Henry, for whom the external world had been momentarily invisible, cannoned into Giles Gosling.

‘Oh hello.'

‘Good morning.'

‘Lovely day, isn't it.'

‘Lovely.'

They sidled round each other. Gosling knocked at the door and was admitted. Henry walked slowly along the lane and along the road until he came to the iron gate. He leaned against it for a long time, looking through at the weedy drive-way where the tree-filtered sunlight was making shifting patterns upon the gravel.

‘I've never known anybody famous,' said Stephanie.

‘I was quite famous once,' said Lucius.

‘I'd like to know some celebrities, pop stars, film stars like.'

‘Yes, I was famous once. Not any more.'

‘What's that big bird?'

‘A heron.'

The heron, which had been walking with long strides in the shallows beyond the rushes now rose with a careless slowness and wheeled over the water, then came down with an air of fussy precision on the other side of the lake. Nearby, a bright-eyed blackbird stood, its head on one side, upon a heap of mown grass, listening for the crepitation of insects. A magpie passed in trail-tail helicopter flight. A pair of collared doves fluttered and wailed. The continuous song of the lark spread out over the surface of the sky. Henry had gone to London to see the people at Sotheby's. It was another sunny day.

‘I've never had a friend,' said Stephanie. ‘Some people are like that.'

‘Oh come. You must have had women friends.'

‘No, they all hated me.'

‘Well, I'm a friend.'

‘But I'll never see you again.'

‘Then let us live in the present.'

‘I don't think women have friends.'

‘I used to have lots and lots—'

‘I had a dog as a child, he was my friend.'

‘Do you mind if we sit down? I feel a bit funny again.'

‘It's the heat. I so much don't want to go to America.'

‘Henry will look after you.'

‘He's got a woman friend there called Bella. She's clever, she's a professor.'

‘Everyone in America is a professor.'

‘Henry will go off with someone clever.'

‘No, he won't. Henry is a gentleman. He'll do what he has undertaken to do.'

‘I'd feel safer if we were being married in church.'

‘There are sacred vows outside churches. Henry will be loyal. Come, you know that.'

‘He thinks I've got no sense of humour.'

‘Married people have to learn each other's sense of humour. It takes time. Look, there's a kingfisher.'

‘Where?'

‘Gone.'

‘I do like it here. I've never really been in the country before. Henry says there is no country in America.'

‘Henry talks nonsense sometimes.'

‘I suppose it was a joke. I don't always know when Henry's making a joke. That's why he says I've got no sense of humour. He's always getting at me.'

‘An aspect of love.'

‘I don't know what I'll do with myself in America.'

‘You might get a job.'

‘I couldn't. Once you've had a breakdown it's finished.'

‘You needn't tell anybody.'

‘I wouldn't want a job now anyway.'

‘You might try having a baby.'

‘Oh I couldn't cope with a baby. Anyway I'm—No—'

‘All right, no baby. But what do you like doing?'

‘I wish I'd had a baby—'

‘You must like doing some things.'

‘I like buying clothes.'

‘Well, that's something.'

‘And I like eating and drinking.'

‘What ye shall eat and what ye shall drink and what ye shall put on.'

‘And I like going to sleep if I'm not worrying, but then I'm always worrying.'

‘So that cuts that out. What about religion, God?'

‘I've never understood religion. My mother was a Christian Scientist, but Dad never let her talk about it.'

‘Do you like any art?'

‘Do I like what?'

‘Any art. I mean, do you enjoy music or reading or—'

‘No.'

‘You could learn.'

‘I'm not clever. Henry won't understand that. I'm like lots of people really. You make it sound as if I don't enjoy anything, but I do. I like animals and sunshine and places like this and—'

‘Look at that enormous bumble bee, he's like a flying puppy dog.'

‘He's gone into the ivy.'

‘ “He will watch from dawn to gloom The lake-reflected sun illume The yellow bees in the ivy bloom, Nor heed nor see what things they be, But from these create he can Forms more real than living man, Nurslings of immortality.”'

‘Did you write that?'

‘No. I wish I had.'

‘I liked some poetry when I was at school, but I've forgotten it now. It's nearly lunch time. Gerda won't let me help in the kitchen.'

‘You go on up. I'll wait here a little. I can't go fast up the steps.'

Stephanie tripped away and Lucius watched her go. She had changed in his eyes since his first vision of her as a mysterious plump charmer. He thought now that she was one of the most purely simple-minded beings with whom he had ever conversed at length and one of the most touching. With what experience, what abysmal innocence. He felt curiously proud of his ability to communicate with her so easily. He had never so
chattered
with anyone. There was something rather absurd and precious about her. He pitied her, and he saw Henry doing so. Gerda saw Henry's love for Stephanie as perverse, almost weird. But Lucius understood.

He sat quiet on the wooden seat, staring across the lake at the grove of willows and red dogwood on the other side. He dreaded the steps now. He was so hurt that Gerda had not asked him to stay near her. She seemed to take it for granted that he would just go away. She had ceased to talk to him or to show him any of her heart. Perhaps he thought, she is suffering too much and wants no witnesses. She was always a proud woman. Oh, if only I could comfort her! But against that judgment there was no appeal. He was to go to Audrey's. That would not serve; and anyway, and perhaps it was just as well, Rex would never let him settle down there. I shall go to London, he thought, and find myself a little room in Soho, and sit every day in the literary pubs, there must still be some. And he pictured himself there, a venerable picturesque white-haired figure in a large black hat, sitting in his accustomed corner and writing, pointed out to visitors. Henry had offered him money, but it was not enough. Surely someone will support me, he thought. The Royal Literary Fund? The Arts Council?

He looked across the lake and resolutely thrust away the panic that was always close to him now. Wakeful at night he saw himself destitute, abandoned, old. If only, he thought, art does not finally fail me. If I can only go on writing
something
I shall be all right. Perhaps I could write my political autobiography as an epic poem? God, how the time has passed. How can a whole life time pass so quickly with so little done? I thought I would achieve wisdom in the end, and now it is the end and I am still a fool. Well, there's life in the old creature yet. He took out his notebook and wrote.

The old grey heron
Seeks among the streams of his youth
For one pure source.

Henry rang the bell. A man opened the door.

It took Henry a substantial number of seconds to recognize Cato. What he saw at first was an elderly man in a dirty white open-necked shirt and dark trousers with a round rather puffy blotchy face and staring eyes.

‘Oh—come in—'

‘I see you're in mufti,' said Henry desperately, trying to account for his amazed look.

‘Oh yes. That's all over. Brendan's at the college. What can I do for you?'

‘I hope you didn't mind my ringing up?'

‘No, no. What can I do for you?'

It was midday on the day following Henry's meeting with Colette. Once the task had been laid upon him he had felt unable to put off seeing Cato. He was glad that she had asked him, but the gladness was also a source of pain, and he wanted to finish with the bond which this duty established between him and the girl. He would send his report promptly in a letter. After that, thank God, America. He had not told Stephanie about his visit to Colette or about his mission to Cato, but had made another excuse about going to London. To spare himself anxiety he had not tried to think too much about Cato beforehand and about the awful thing that had happened to him. But now looking at that staring unsmiling face he saw what Colette had meant when she feared that her brother might go mad. Cato looked, in some way which was hard to define, very ill. His face looked swollen and greasy and there was a dark purplish ring round each eye. He kept opening his mouth, then closing it, then pursing his lips and wrinkling his nose in a quick nervous movement. His eyes roved constantly, avoiding Henry.

The sitting-room of Brendan Craddock's flat was rather narrow and dark with one window which looked out onto a wall, and even though the sun was shining outside the room seemed almost in twilight. Cato made no move to put on a light, probably not noticing the gloom. Books lined the walls. There were some black velvet hangings and rather too many rugs. Henry sat down gingerly on some sort of embroidered chair. Cato stood leaning against the books, took a pace or two carefully brushing them with his sleeve, then leaned again, gazing at the window. After his query he seemed to have forgotten Henry.

‘I wondered how you were,' said Henry.

‘Oh, all right.' Cato moved along the bookshelves, skirted the window and returned along the shelves on the other side, keeping his arm against them as if this contact were necessary to his safety. He reached the door, then returned using the other arm, now pursing his lips up with an air of scrupulous exactitude.

‘I wondered if I could help in any way,' said Henry. The words, in this scene, sounded flat and impertinent.

‘I don't think so, thank you.'

‘I was—so awfully sorry—to hear about—'

Cato said nothing. He paused, scrutinized the books as if searching for something, then began to move again.

Henry said, ‘I had an awful time too, I waited at the Mission, you know, with the police, I waited all night, only nobody came—and—'

Cato was silent.

‘Well—so—you're leaving the priesthood?'

‘Yes.'

‘I'm sorry.'

‘I don't see why you should be sorry,' said Cato, frowning slightly, ‘seeing that you don't believe in God.'

‘You don't know what I believe,' said Henry petulantly. He hoped that Cato, who had shown a faint sign of feeling at last, might reply to this, that some kind of conversation might begin; but silence followed. Cato gazed about, not at Henry. Henry turned round and contemplated the books behind him. The
Summa Theologica.
The complete works of Nietzsche in German.

‘Look, Cato, for Christ's sake stop walking up and down. Is there anything to drink here?'

‘I don't think so.'

Henry got up and investigated a cupboard which was set in the bookshelves. There was a bottle of whisky, a decanter of sherry, glasses. Henry poured himself out some whisky.

‘Would you like a drink?'

‘No, thank you.'

Henry sat down again. Cato paused again, studying the books, then gave a deep sigh, the sort of sigh which a man gives when he is alone.

‘Cato—please—talk to me. What are you going to do with yourself now?'

‘I have a teaching job in Leeds. I shall go there.'

‘Will you go back to Pennwood first?'

‘Only if I think I can tell lies.' Cato selected a book, opened it and examined it intently.

‘Lies—what lies?'

‘Suitable ones.'

After a moment Henry said, ‘I saw Colette.'

‘Did you.' A look almost of malevolence twisted Cato's puffy face, but he continued to peruse the book.

‘She—she—seemed none the worse for her ordeal.'

‘None the worse. That's good.'

‘Cato, do sit down, do talk properly, please.'

Cato, grimacing, turned the look of malevolence onto Henry. Then he dropped the book noisily onto the floor.

‘Did you ever think that perhaps I might marry Colette?' He wanted to startle Cato into some real speech.

‘
You?
Marry
Colette?!
No!!'

Henry flinched at the quick force of spite in the reply. ‘All right I never wanted to—I mean—'

‘Colette will marry somebody distinguished and good. If she marries.'

‘Why shouldn't she marry, or do you think she'll become a nun?'

‘It's up to her,' said Cato, his voice blank again. He leaned back against the shelves and looked at his watch.

‘Cato, don't be angry with me.'

‘I hear you're marrying some whore.'

‘Yes,' said Henry, ‘I am.'

‘And then, having vented your vindictive resentment on your mother, you are returning to America.'

‘That's right. I know you were against the sale—'

‘Oh, I'm not,' said Cato. ‘Not at all. I'm for it. Sell the place up, excellent. All those old houses are much better made into flats or bloody conference centres, and all those useless acres built upon. There's a housing shortage here, you know.'

‘Cato—hadn't you better see a doctor?'

‘Why did you come here?' said Cato, staring at Henry again, speaking very incisively but softly.

‘I came out of affection for you.'

‘You came out of curiosity.'

‘I came because we're old friends.'

‘You came as a tourist.'

‘Cato, stop.'

‘Did you ever kill a man?'

‘No.'

‘You should try it some time. It's a funny feeling. It's so easy to end a man's life. Once you've done it you feel you might do it again. Why not go around killing people?'

‘Cato—is Brendan coming home soon?'

‘Are you frightened of me?'

‘No—but—I feel you shouldn't be alone.'

‘Do you imagine I'll kill myself?'

‘No, of course not—'

‘After one has committed a murder—'

‘But you didn't!'

‘One realizes that there are no barriers, there never were any barriers, what one thought were barriers were simply frivolous selfish complacent illusions and vanities. All that so-called morality is simply smirking at yourself in a mirror and thinking how good you are. Morality is nothing but self-esteem, nothing else, simply affectations of virtue and spiritual charm. And when self-esteem is gone there's nothing left but fury, fury of unbridled egoism.'