Imaginative Experience (18 page)

Come unto Me all ye that travail and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest.
The notice was printed in black letters on a red background. She had passed the church before, or was this a similar church with the same notice? She kept walking to keep warm. Earlier in the day crowds of people had erupted from the Brompton Oratory, streaming out from morning Mass, fanning down the steps to make their way home for Christmas lunch. There had been no notice outside the Oratory; she had climbed the steps and almost reached the doors before losing her nerve and doubling back past the V & A (firmly closed) to trudge up Exhibition Road to the Park and there find a seat, sit, and rest her feet. But not for long; it was too cold. Better to keep moving. Circling back past the Albert Hall and down a flight of steps, she sighted another church and remembered the church where she had sat in the warmth of candles and eaten a sandwich and the priest had not minded. Where was it? She could not place it, except that the bus ride back was a long one, but perhaps this would do? She pushed at the door and almost immediately was sitting gleefully in warm and agreeable chiaroscuro with Joyful leaning against her leg.

But a tall verger in a black cassock loomed near. ‘This is a church,’ he mouthed over loose double chins. ‘You cannot bring a dog in here.’ He had a long thin nose.

‘He is quiet and good, as you see. He is doing no harm.’ Julia did not take to the verger.

‘That is not a Guide Dog,’ the man said. ‘There are of course exceptions for Guide Dogs.’

‘He is without sin.’ Julia counted the verger’s chins—one, two and a half.

‘And without a collar, you must take it out.’

‘What about the notices which say: “Come unto Me all that travail and are heavy laden?”’ Julia prevaricated, still seated.

‘You will not find those sort of notices outside this church.’ She had offended him.

‘Why not?’

‘That is for other denominations. Are you going to remove the animal?’ He swayed impatiently in his cassock, bony knees poking hillocks in the serge.

She said again, ‘He is without sin,’ and sat tight in her exhaustion.

The verger said, ‘So you say,’ and, raising his voice, ‘I know your sort.
Out!’

‘And what sort is that?’ Her fatigue induced resistance.

‘The sort which cracks cheap jokes about
G-O-D
and
D-O-G
. I say
O-U-T
, out!’

Getting to her feet, Julia said ‘Oh dear, you reduce me to my last resort.’

The verger said angrily, ‘Do not threaten me with cheap suicide.
Out!’
and followed them to the church door, which he closed behind her.

S
YLVESTER WAITED FOR HIS
bags by the carousel. His journey had been dogged by delays and cancelled flights. He was weary. His legs ached from sitting cramped in crowded aircraft; he was in need of sleep and had indigestion. A fellow passenger standing near exclaimed, ‘Happy Christmas!’ in tones of exasperation and the girl yawning beside him said wearily, ‘I believe it’s Boxing Day or maybe it’s Sunday. Oh! There’s our case, catch it before it escapes, here!’ and, leaning forward so that a curtain of hair shielded her cheek, grabbed. Watching and yawning too, Sylvester saw that her hair was naturally fair, not the extreme blonde the Bratt women favoured. Their heads, bleached almost white, had resembled silkworms’ cocoons. What had possessed him to make a pass at that girl? Not only did she stink like Celia, she had this unnatural hair. He leaned forward to catch one of his bags as it filtered by and noticed disgustedly that in his haste on leaving the Bratts he had shut it carelessly and nipped the fellow to the underpants left in Sal’s bed in the zip. ‘I bet they’re torn as well as dirty,’ he said out loud. ‘Brooks Brothers’ best!’ The girl in the act of capturing luggage—she was nippier than her companion—looked at him curiously. She was rather plain, he thought, and forgot her immediately as he wrestled with the zip and pushed the offending undergarment inside, noticing as he did so that it was indeed irrevocably torn.

Wheeling his luggage towards the exit, he decided to have no more dealings with Bratt, to let his partner John deal with the man. Yet, he thought as he hailed a taxi, it would be a pleasure to write an introduction.

‘Is it Christmas Day or Boxing Day?’ he asked the driver as he got into the cab.

‘It’s Sunday, innit?’ The driver was burly and dark but not what Bratt would have called ‘tinted’.

‘I want to stop at a carpet shop in Chiswick.’ Sylvester leaned forward and spoke through the glass behind the man’s head. ‘It’s more or less on the way.’

‘Be shut, wonnit?’ The driver swung out onto the M4 and trod on the accelerator.

‘The owner lives above the shop, it’s worth a try,’ Sylvester shouted.

‘Suit yourself,’ the driver answered indifferently.

Still vaguely haunted by Marvin Bratt, Sylvester asked, ‘Do you believe in social engineering?’

‘What’s that, then?’

‘Holocaust of Red Indians.’

‘Don’t know nothing about that.’

‘Or the Jewish Holocaust,’, Sylvester persisted.

‘That’s history, innit? Like the Crusades. You want to read H. G. Wells,’ said the driver, ‘get a sense of proportion.’

‘Do you listen to Alistair Cooke? He says taxi drivers know everything.’

The driver laughed. ‘Not everything. Where’s this carpet shop, then?’

Sylvester told him.

‘It’ll be shut,’ said the driver and switched on his radio, distancing himself from his fare.

Sylvester pulled down the window and let the icy air rush in; it pleased him, as did a lowering sky presaging rain. He was glad to be home.

Bowling up the almost empty motorway he remembered other returns. When they were first married Celia had volunteered to meet him, then not turned up. He had worried, fearing she might be ill, have had an accident, and finally he had rung up. Answering the phone, she expressed surprise. ‘Oh, you’ve arrived! No, I did not feel like coming, it’s such a rotten day. I imagined you’d take a taxi.’ On another occasion he had taken a taxi and returned to an empty house. She had gone to a party. With Andrew Battersby, he later discovered.
Thank you for not smoking.
Sylvester read the notice. ‘And thank you for leaving me,’ he said out loud, looking forward to an empty house and his own space.

They left the motorway. The driver slowed. ‘This the street, then?’

‘Yes, thanks. That shop on the left which says Oriental Carpets.’

‘Closed,’ said the driver, stopping outside.

Sylvester got out, rang the bell and waited. When the owner of the shop opened the door and invited him in, he said, ‘Do you mind waiting?’ and the driver, shrugging, said, ‘You can’t win ’em all,’ and almost smiled.

‘I have not packed them, I want you to see how they have cleaned well. You will have a cup of coffee?’ The dealer drew him inside. ‘Sit down, please.’ He offered a chair. ‘My wife brings coffee.’

Sylvester watched the man spread the rugs. ‘Are these mine?’ He was delighted by the subtle faded colours. ‘I had forgotten how lovely they are. They will turn my house into a palace. Is this your wife?’ He shook hands and accepted coffee. ‘And your daughter?’ A little girl stood by his knee; she was beautifully ‘tinted’, as were her parents. She thrust a toy into his hand. ‘For you,’ she shouted. ‘You!’

Sylvester said, ‘Oh, but I—’ holding his cup in one hand, the toy in the other.

‘You must keep it or she will be insulted,’ said the child’s father. ‘She has many others.’

‘And I have none. Thank you very much.’

The child, satisfied, ran out of the room. Sylvester finished his coffee. The dealer rolled up the rugs and carried them to the taxi.

‘I know I’m pushing my luck,’ said Sylvester, ‘but there’s a shop called Patel’s Corner Shop quite near me; it just might be open. Please, stop there.’

‘That’ll be the lot, then?’ asked the driver.

Sylvester said, ‘Yes.’ He felt very happy. He would order the papers, get a carton of milk—there was only dried milk in the cupboard—hole up and sleep off his jet lag. He hummed as they drove through the late-evening streets, noticing Christmas trees alight in ground-floor windows and holly wreaths hanging on doors. But Patel’s Corner Shop was closed and dark when they arrived. His driver was almost sympathetic. ‘You can’t win ’em all,’ he said again. ‘Back into the King’s Road and second on the left, innit?’

Sylvester said, ‘Yes,’ and was soon standing on his doorstep with the rugs and his bags round his feet, watching the taxi drive away while he fumbled for his key.

The dolphin knocker was brightly polished and the paintwork gleaming; he turned the key. He was enormously tired, aching for sleep. He put the rolled rugs beside his bags and, shutting the door, listened gratefully to the silence.

From the sitting-room came a rustling sound.

A dog crouched by the sofa; it swept its tail to and fro across the parquet. On the sofa there was a woman asleep.

Overwhelmed by fatigue and surprise, Sylvester sat in the armchair.

The dog rose, came towards him, sniffed his trousers. Sylvester whispered, ‘It’s all right.’ The dog repositioned itself by the sofa. Sylvester stretched his legs, leaned back, tried to think, heard the rustle of the dog’s tail. Hadn’t Rebecca said something in her letter?

W
HEN JOYFUL BARKED SYLVESTER
jerked awake with a grunt and the woman on the sofa telescoped her legs to her chin and stared speechless across her knees.

Sylvester said, ‘My God. I fell asleep. Who are you?’ His heart was thudding.

It was still quite dark; the clatter of the letter-box as the postman pushed in mail ceased and the hair along the dog’s back subsided. Sylvester repeated, ‘Who are you?’

The woman sprang to her feet. Putting the sofa between them, she said, ‘How did you get in?’

He could see that she was afraid. He said, ‘I let myself in with my key. I live here.’

‘What?’

‘I live here. This is my house.’

Her face was paper white. ‘Can you prove it?’ She was quite a tall girl, wearing jeans and a heavy sweater under a black coat.

Irritably Sylvester said, ‘Of course I can prove it.’

‘How?’
The dog moved to stand between them. She repeated, ‘How?’ and glanced towards the telephone. The dog, infected by her fear, growled.

Sylvester said, ‘The letters which have just come through the box will be addressed to me; my name is Sylvester Wykes.’

She said, ‘I don’t believe you. Don’t move. My dog—’

‘I hate to undeceive you,’ Sylvester said, ‘but your dog wagged his tail when I came in. Why don’t you go and look at the letters? I won’t move. Go on.’

She hesitated, then edged warily out of the room. Sylvester called after her, ‘Don’t run away.’

She came back with the letters and handed them to him. She said, ‘Are you his son?’

‘Whose son?’

‘Sylvester Wykes’s.’

‘
I
am Sylvester Wykes. Who may you be?’ His startled heart had settled down; he was intrigued.

‘I thought he was quite old.’ She spoke as of some character in the past. ‘Quite an old man,’ she said.

Irritably Sylvester said, ‘I’ve got jet lag and I feel bloody old, but I am not all that ancient. You still have not told me who
you
are.’

‘Julia Piper.’

‘My cleaning lady? Gosh!’ He was taken aback. Breaking into laughter, he said, ‘I visualized you as on the old side, too. But tell me, do you work over Christmas?’

Julia said, ‘I was taking refuge. Don’t worry, I’ll go now. I’m sorry I—’

He could see embarrassment flood her face pink. He said, ‘Please don’t go. Please stay. Have some breakfast,’ he said, ‘I’m starving. There’s food in the house. There should be bread in the freezer, and butter; there’s marmalade and coffee and dried milk, we can manage.’ And as she still appeared poised for flight, he repeated, ‘Please.’

At her feet the dog sat back and began to scratch, its leg thumping on the bare floor. Sylvester said, ‘I brought rugs from the cleaners; I left them in the hall with my luggage when I came in. I saw you, I sat down for a moment and fell asleep. I’ll take my stuff upstairs. Tell you what, why don’t you go and put the kettle on while I do that? I trust you not to scarper,’ he said cheerfully.

Half-reassured, Julia said, ‘All right.’

Carrying his bags upstairs Sylvester wished that he had watched her instead of dozing off; asleep she would not have looked so wary or so defensive. What was she defensive about? What was she doing here? It was odd. Hadn’t Rebecca written something about squatters? Was she a squatter? Far too young to be a cleaning lady. Perhaps she just knew the cleaning lady’s name and was using it? He put his bags down in the bedroom and looked about for signs of illicit occupation.

Spotless room, faint smell of brasso and floor polish, his father’s silver brushes gleaming on the dressing table. Clean sheets on bed. Bathroom spotless also. Fresh towels on towel rail, bath and basin gleaming and dry as a bone, new unused cake of soap. What’s going on? He opened the bathroom window and looked out. ‘Good God! What’s happened to the garden?’

Running down the stairs two at a time, arriving abruptly in the kitchen, startling the dog, he shouted, ‘What’s happened to the garden?’

Backed against the stove, a coffee grinder in her hand, Julia said defensively, ‘You arranged—we arranged—I thought it—’

‘God! I’d forgotten. Quite forgotten. Hi! Don’t look like that. Don’t! It’s bloody marvellous. It’s lovely. There’s a snowdrop out, a Christmas rose, winter jasmine. It’s a work of genius! Who did you get to do it? It’s wonderful.’

‘I did it.’

‘You?’

‘Yes.’

‘Oh.’

They stood appraising each other across the room. Julia smiled faintly.

It occurred to Sylvester that it was years, if ever, since he had had such an agreeable homecoming. He said, ‘Would your genius stretch to making us both breakfast? And your dog? What’s his name?’

‘Joyful.’

‘Apt.’

‘Coffee?’ She held up the grinder. Sylvester nodded. She pressed her thumb on the button and the kitchen filled with its screech.