Imaginative Experience (21 page)

‘How do you do?’ Julia stood up, extended her hand.

Rebecca shook it. ‘Bitter cold day.’ She eyed Julia. ‘I was just passing,’ she said. ‘I brought Mr Wykes some milk.’

Julia smiled.

‘Come on, Rebecca, have a drink.’ Sylvester replenished his glass. ‘Look at the garden.’ He waved his arm. ‘Miraculoso. I think I am a bit pissed.’

‘You should not drink with jet lag.’ Rebecca moved to look out. ‘Goodness!’ She stared at the garden. ‘What happened to Celia’s cherub?’

‘Went out with the rubbish. Soon after Celia.’

‘As I too must. Nice to have met you.’ Rebecca swivelled her glance from the garden to Julia. ‘I will be in touch,’ she said to Sylvester who, following her to the door, wheedled, ‘You sure you won’t have a drink?’

‘Quite sure.’ Rebecca opened the street door. ‘See you soon,’ she said, stepping out.

Sylvester shouted after her, ‘Thanks for the milk,’ and, returning to the sitting-room, collapsed laughing into his armchair. ‘Where were we?’

But Julia said, ‘Tell me about the cupid,’ and he knew that Rebecca had robbed him of her confidence. The opportunity was lost.

‘The cupid?’

‘Oh! The cupid,’ Sylvester cried bitterly. ‘Celia’s cupid! It was horrible, a horrible plaster thing. I can’t think where she found it, can’t imagine. Anyway, she plonked it in the middle of the garden—she was always going to do something about the garden and never did—then someone whose taste she respected looked at it. I know! It was Calypso, the aunt who is not dead, and from her expression—her expression only, mind, Calypso would be too tactful to voice a derogatory opinion for fear of hurting Celia’s feelings, unaware at that period that Celia’s feelings are cast-iron—Celia twigged that she had boobed, bought a bit of loathsome kitsch, lost interest in the garden—not that she ever had much—so there it sat. And when she left me to remarry her first husband, Andrew Battersby, she left it behind but took everything else of the remotest value and I was inspired to root it up and put it in the dustbin. I say, Julia Piper, I am talking too much, it’s the whisky, but old Rebecca’s reaction to Celia’s cupid brings it all back. I told you, didn’t I, how I watched her load a taxi with the TVs and that she even took my new kettle?’

‘No,’ said Julia. ‘Tell me.’

Sylvester thought, I don’t want to talk about Celia, that is over. I want more about her mother; what an appalling unimaginable situation that must have been. I want to know what she could not tell the priest.

Holding his empty glass near his face, he leaned towards Julia on the sofa. She met his eye; there was no way she was going to answer questions. She had become wary; her moment of weakness was past. She had composed herself. She looked less blotchy, she was very nearly smiling. She said, ‘Your new kettle? Your wife?’

Frustrated, he sighed into his empty glass, which responded with a whisper like summer sea rustling up the beach. He said, ‘We were married about five years; when we met Celia had just discovered her husband was having an affair. We met at a party. I was at a loose end; had not, come to think of it, been tied. There was that instant rapport that one mistakes for love which actually is no more than animal sex—I should know, I have just had a dose in the States, but that’s another story. She moved in here. Everyone warned me it would not work, which naturally egged me on. We married as soon as she divorced. She was very, very pretty, blonde, well-dressed but not, I was to discover, at all sexy, not spontaneously so. I do think, don’t you, that it’s important to get along in bed?’ (I should not say that, should I? Will she tell me how it was with that bastard Giles?)

Sylvester waited for Julia to do more than give a slight nod, whose meaning was impossible to construe.

He went on, ‘She wanted rich people for friends, travel to fashionable places, smart clothes, all the tinsel. She could not stand me wanting to write. I am lazy and easily discouraged, she soon choked that. She filled the house with expensive china ornaments, with white televisions. Oh!’ Sylvester cried. ‘Why am I
boring
you with all this?’

‘You loved her.’ Julia looked out at the garden.

‘No, I did
not!’
Sylvester shouted and then, as she did not respond, ‘Of course I loved her but I do-not-love-her-now.’ (Now, perhaps, we can get back to the Giles/Clodagh complex?)

But apparently sensing his train of thought, Julia said, ‘And the kettle?’ and he, caught in the snare of half-forgotten pain, told how he had watched, hidden by the pillar-box, as Celia piled the last of her loot into a taxi, elaborating, listing the items, the parcels, the carrier bags, the televisions, even the new kettle, while he waited like a timid fool until she drove away before venturing back to his house, hoping she would laugh for the situation had been absurd. ‘Even then,’ he said, ‘she left traces.’

Julia said, ‘Oh?’, not laughing as he had hoped she would.

‘She used a scent called “Emotion”. I had grown to hate it. The house reeked of it after her raid—’

Julia smiled and he thought, she is loosening up, perhaps now I can lead back, but ready for him she said, ‘You mentioned another story?’ so that he gave in.

‘That was humiliating, too,’ and as wittily as possible he told of his visit to the Bratts and the debacle with the blonde who, too, smelled of ‘Emotion’. But although she smiled, she failed to laugh even at the loss of the new Brooks Brothers’ underpants.

‘You do not seem to find my adventure comical,’ he said.

‘I think Celia hurt you more than you let on.’

‘God, no! I am delighted. Ask Rebecca, ask anyone who knows me. I am well rid of her. I—what makes you think I am hurt?’ he said indignantly.

‘Takes one to know one,’ said Julia coolly. ‘You are close to tears.’

‘It’s the alcohol!’ Sylvester raised his voice. ‘Damn you,’ he exclaimed, ‘you’ve set me off.’ And through his tears he cried, ‘Of course I loved her, of course she hurt me.’ He snatched the roll of lavatory paper Julia no longer needed, tore off a handful and blew his nose. ‘But I am all right now,’ he said, chucking the used paper towards the waste-paper basket. ‘My pain is nothing compared to yours! I wish that shit Giles were alive so that I could kill him. I am appalled by what he did to you, and as for your mother—’ Then, observing Julia wince, he stopped. He had gone too far.

‘It seems to me,’ Julia steered him away, ‘that she emasculated you.’

‘Who?’

‘Celia.’

‘Not permanently,’ Sylvester cried, alarmed. ‘And although I shed a tear for her, it is retrospective, I assure you, in a sense painless.’ Observing Julia relax, he thought, if I tread warily we can get back to her story. But Julia was standing up, running her hand through her hair, looking round for the dog.

‘I should be on my way,’ she said. ‘I have to work tomorrow. Thank you so much for letting me shelter, the party should be over now,’ pulling her sweater down over her hips, distancing herself.

Sylvester said, ‘Must you go?’

She said, ‘I must.’

He said, ‘I will walk you home.’

S
HE HAS LOVELY LONG
legs, Sylvester thought, matching his stride to Julia’s. Celia had stepped fast but unevenly, heels clacking on the pavement. Passing the pillar-box from behind which he had watched his ex-wife’s depredations, Julia shortened her stride as Joyful lifted a leg.

‘I found Celia’s thoroughness somehow admirable,’ he said. ‘I could have stopped her taking so much but it would have been dog in the mangerish. In a way,’ he said, ‘she did me a good turn.’

Julia did not answer but stepped off the pavement and crossed the street, the dog pacing close to her knee. Was she listening to what he said? Could she possibly be interested in what Celia had taken? All the things they had bought together? Things which, had she left them, would have reminded him of times past, happy and sad. How could she be? I did love Celia, he thought, and I was jealous. I was hurt and very, very angry.

‘But not any more,’ he said out loud and Julia nodded as though she understood, squeezing sideways between tightly parked cars onto the opposite pavement.

‘One thing I must replace is a car. I am presently carless. Have you got a car?’ he asked. ‘Celia took it,’ he said. Julia did not answer.

Fool, he thought. Car smash. Child and ex-husband killed. Idiot! But I will get a car and take her to the country. She likes the country, I know that much. The car must be roomy for those legs, and there is the dog to consider. There must be room for him.

‘Rebecca will want to advise me,’ he said, ‘she’s a know-all.’ Julia laughed. So she had been listening. ‘She has a golden heart and not enough to do,’ he said. ‘When she worked in our office, we devoted much time to finding people whose lives needed reorganizing. Lately she has been under the misapprehension that mine is in need.’

Julia said, ‘Yes.’ They had reached the alleyway leading out of his cul-de-sac and walked through it in Indian file, Julia leading. ‘It is difficult to keep Rebecca at arm’s length without hurting her feelings,’ Sylvester said.

Julia said, ‘I imagine.’

What rubbish I am talking. I wish I could tell her something of interest, tell her about Bratt for instance, and the Ku Klux Klan, he thought, drawing abreast as they emerged from the alleyway. I wonder how she would react if I told her Celia has even taken the mattress off my bed and that I am glad the new one is pristine, impersonal, only slept on by me! ‘Rebecca does not know about that,’ he said out loud.

Julia said, ‘What?’

He told her about the mattress. She said, ‘Of course that would help.’

‘When I bought it the shop said it only needs turning occasionally,’ Sylvester said. ‘So when you come tomorrow—’

‘I shan’t come tomorrow.’

‘What?’ He stood still. ‘Not coming?’ Had she thought he was propositioning her?

‘It’s not my day,’ she said.

‘Your day?’

‘I shall come Tuesdays and Fridays now the garden is in order.’

‘But you will come?’

‘Yes.’

‘But the other days? Mondays, Wednesdays and Thursdays?’ Could he perhaps invite her to lunch?

‘I have other jobs,’ she said.

‘Oh,’ he said. ‘Must you?’

She nodded.

‘Doing what?’ he pried.

‘Cleaning people’s flats.’

‘But—’ he said. ‘Why?’

‘Mrs Patel at the corner-shop cared for Christy with her little boy while I worked—I still work.’

‘But is that—’

‘It’s not
all
I can do,’ she said, ‘but the hours suit. I don’t like offices or having to be with people, having to talk.’

Half-understanding, Sylvester said, ‘I see,’ and they walked on for a bit not talking. But then curiosity bubbled again and he asked, ‘Did you have
any
happy times with your ex, your Giles? I ask, because I did with Celia. It would not be fair to pretend I had not.’

She said, ‘Not enough,’ and, ‘He was not mine.’ They were turning a street corner. She exclaimed, ‘Oh, God! The party is still raging,’ dismayed.

They stood looking along the street. Sylvester said, ‘Is this where you live?’

‘Yes, number seven.’ She stood, irresolute.

The door of number seven was open. Music flowed from upstairs windows, two people danced on the pavement, another pair swayed in the road to the strains of
Non, je ne regrette rien.
Several more sat on the doorstep, glass in hand, singing. Inside the house a hubbub of voices was punctuated by shrieks of laughter and occasional recrimination.

Sylvester said, ‘You’d think they’d be cold,’ feeling cold himself. ‘You can’t go back into that, that lot are high on drink and probably drugs, come back with me,’ but Julia said, ‘I must. Joyful is starving and his food is in my flat.’

Crossly Sylvester said, ‘Surely we can find him something to eat in my house?’

She said, ‘Your cupboard is bare. Oh my!’ as a man, propelled violently from behind, was precipitated down the steps watched by Peter Eddison. That’s my neighbour in the flat below,’ she said. ‘His wife’s been known to send for the police.’

‘That party’s growing rough.’ Sylvester was worried.

‘The dancers in the road are not disturbed,’ she said. ‘Last year they had bagpipes and danced reels; that
was
noisy.’

Sylvester said, ‘I’ve an idea. Let’s find a taxi and take Joyful to a restaurant,’ hoping to lure her, but she said, ‘No, I will not be daunted. I live here. There are tins of his food in my flat. I must get to them. I refuse to be pusillanimous,’ she said as a window on the second floor flew open and someone with a shout of ‘Fuck the washing-up!’ hurled a trayful of crockery to crash into the area.

Sylvester said, ‘Gosh!’, impressed. ‘Wow!’

‘I must say goodbye,’ Julia said, ‘and thank you very much for being so kind. I hope you will get some rest and sleep off your jet lag. I really am sorry,’ she said, ‘to have been such an inconvenient surprise.’ She spoke hurriedly and shivered in the frosty air.

Sylvester raised his voice. ‘Oh, do shut up! If you insist on going in there, I will come with you, at least see you get to your flat safely. There is no way,’ he said loudly, ‘that I will let you go alone.’

Julia said, ‘It’s only a party, I’ve survived others. I should not have made a fuss. No need,’ she said, her voice rising, ‘to be gallant.’

Offended, Sylvester cried, ‘Ho! Really! If I had not arrived back in the middle of the night you would have gone on sheltering in my house, dog food or not, I bet. You would have waited there until tomorrow.’

Julia said, ‘Well, I’m not waiting now,’ and set off at a run towards the steps of number seven.

Sylvester and Joyful ran after her, side-stepping the dancing couples just as someone switched the music from Piaf to Rock.

Bounding up the steps, Julia elbowed swiftly through a group of people ebbing in and out of the ground-floor flat. Sylvester, following, glanced from the doorstep into the area where a bulky couple clutching each other tightly were beginning to rock, and hurried after Julia through a din of talk and smell of food, alcohol and tobacco. Joyful pressed close to Julia’s heels, but Sylvester could not keep up. There were people sitting and standing all the way up the stairs and dancing on the landings. Some of them were friendly and offered him drinks or cigarettes as his legs became entangled with theirs, so that he paused to apologize. They said, ‘What’s the hurry?’ He said, ‘What indeed?’ Julia could not escape; he would meet up with her at the top, no need to rush. Panting, he paused to look out of a landing window, get a gasp of fresh air.