Lewis Percy (19 page)

Therefore his fury with the smoking student was an unwelcome reminder of the strength of his residual feelings. At that moment he would have defended the library to the death and been glad to do so. Such passion he could not remember, and it unsettled him. It went with boldness, carelessness, rashness, all of which were absent from the life he was called on to live. He told himself that the books were, and always had been, his only companions, that his deepest, in fact his only loyalty was towards the content of the books. As he returned to his desk he shook slightly with the after-effects of his anger. All of this was unwelcome, had no place in his moderate existence. It was not merely the student’s insolence, his flouting of the rules, that had enraged him: it was his sudden vision of a world in which no attention
was paid to the wisdom of books – a world in which he would die of heartbreak – that had impelled his arm and his despairing grasp. Despairing, certainly, he thought, breathing hard. Yes, certainly despairing. He felt shocked, uneasy, and was only able to dismiss the incident after prolonged attention to a collection of essays on neo-classicism and the eighteenth-century theatre.

The sort of Pooterish character he strove so hard to become gradually returned, and he began to think about lunch. There was no sign of Pen, which was unusual; the rows of empty chairs and unoccupied tables indicated effervescence in another part of the building. These days he sometimes had the library almost to himself, for Goldsborough’s place was with the multitude, and Stephens and Tracy, the other two assistants, thought it politic to join him. Old Arthur Tooth, a long-retired librarian and actual retainer, ranged with crab-like slowness round the stacks, shelving the books: there was no getting rid of him. Two student helpers, Alan and Bridget, sorted the books into piles and put them on a table to which he made creaking return journeys throughout the day. The work could have been done in an hour by a person of normal vigour, but Arthur, who had decided, on the strength of his long experience, to undertake the task, remained entrenched, and was a warning to those in office to regard volunteers like gift-bearing Greeks. At twelve noon Arthur would haul his watch out of his waistcoat pocket, tuck it back again, disappear into the general office, reappear in top coat and bowler hat, and go off to his club for lunch. At two-thirty he would return, wheezing slightly, and surrounded by a fine bouquet of claret, and set to work again, though more slowly. The job had no beginning and no end and could therefore never be judged to have been completed. Whatever remained undone at the end of the day, before the next influx of returned books, would fall to Lewis, who found it mindless but satisfying. Plodding round the silent library with an armful of texts made him feel like an honest labourer, in touch with his
materials, one who would deserve a respite after a day of toil.

The mild atmosphere of his working life both suited and maddened him, making him long to run, laugh, sing, burn his boats, fracture for ever that solemn silence in such a way that they would never allow him back. Sometimes his eyes would actually dull and mist over as a result of peering into the even gloom and the shaded lights. Then he would remind himself of Pen’s observation that his tasks were innocent, even honourable, causing no harm or injury. He supposed that this was how the world’s work was done, that men in offices throughout the land, across the globe, sighed in frustration or felt the small sad protest of the bored child sent out to play. Is this all? If the end of life were to be the same as the beginning, how was he to endure the middle years? And yet he had all the things a man was supposed to have, had attained man’s estate, had married … Cold recognition stole unbidden through the barriers he had erected against it. Yet he determined to be a man of good will, would not become crabbed or sour, blushed at the very thought of expressing dissatisfaction. He saw virtue in a certain
naïveté
and fought to keep the hopeful smile on his face. He was determined to value his life, as it was, for not to do so seemed to him a cardinal sin. Making an effort, he stayed resolutely within the terms of the given. And when he thought of old Arthur Tooth, who lived in an hotel in Queen’s Gate, and for whom the library was his very life, he felt ashamed of his discontent, and thought with gratitude of his home and of his wife. I must strive for simplicity, he thought; otherwise I shall fail to do justice to what I already have.

When Pen arrived, unusually late, he had Emmy in tow. Lewis had not seen her since the dinner party of the previous week. She had, surprisingly, not telephoned Tissy to thank her: Pen had done that. ‘I’m sorry,’ Emmy had announced. ‘I thought she was a crashing bore, and I can’t think of anything to say to her. Anyway, she didn’t like me. She likes you. You do it.’

‘How rude,’ Tissy had said. ‘It was the least she could have done.’

Lewis had felt a little hurt on his wife’s behalf, although Tissy had cheered up as she recounted the evening to her mother. Mrs Harper, as might have been expected, was unrelenting in her condemnation. ‘The least she could have done,’ she said accusingly to Lewis. ‘Well, you won’t want her here again.’ Yet he had wanted her. He had hoped for a friend for his wife, someone of her own, to whom she could talk freely. He supposed that she would talk freely to someone, if that ideal person could be found. And yet there had been an antagonism between the two women which he had tried hard to ignore. He could understand how someone as fragile as Tissy would arm herself against the obviously anarchic Emmy, but why should Emmy, who had nothing to fear, waste her time and feelings on Tissy, whom she might never see again? He shook his head in disappointment. He knew nothing of antipathy between women, although he could recognize jealousy. He supposed the antipathy to be almost chemical, an affair of the humours, the lymphatic coldly repulsing the sanguine, the sanguine exasperated by the slow-moving lymphatic’s lack of response. There was no possibility of friendship there, Lewis saw, and this was another small disappointment to add to those he already sought to ignore. It also worried him that he should have such a friend in Pen, but that the friendship should be limited by Tissy’s reluctance. He hoped that this would make no difference to either of them. He hoped against hope that he would not be forced, through loyalty to his wife, to have to distance himself from Pen.

But Pen’s face was as open as ever as he approached Lewis’s desk. Emmy, dressed in a brown suit with a long skirt, and boots, her hair loose, followed him. Lewis could see clearly the resemblance between them, in their brown eyes and their confident smiles. They were privileged children, he thought; they would always expect to be greeted with smiles. They had never been frustrated or gagged. Even Pen’s friendship
with George Cheveley, irregular though it undoubtedly was, had received a sort of sanction through Pen’s upright and excellent character, but also through his position, his status, his gentlemanliness. Lewis reflected that with Pen’s advantages a man need never explain himself. The same, of course, would apply to Emmy. She had tacit permission to do whatever she wanted: no one would oppose her. She might have her critics (he thought of Mrs Harper) but she would be immune to such criticism. He could imagine her incredulous smile should anyone ever disagree with her on a point of conduct. She would feel pity for any antagonist, not rage. Lewis saw that she probably felt pity for Tissy, and the thought made him uncomfortable. Yet he had to admire her fine clear face and her flushed cheeks. She looked as if she had come in from a long country walk.

‘Lewis,’ said Pen. ‘You wouldn’t like to do me a favour, would you? Could you possibly take Emmy out to lunch? The thing is, I must get my hair cut before this evening; it’s
Don Giovanni
and George only got the tickets at the last moment. You may have noticed that I’m a trifle late.’

‘Yes, I had noticed,’ said Lewis, smiling.

‘Blame Emmy. She kept me up talking half the night and then collared my alarm. I didn’t wake up till nine. I really don’t know why I came in at all. But one does, doesn’t one?’ He nodded in the direction of Goldsborough’s door. ‘Keeping himself busy, is he?’

‘Oh, yes. He’s away most of the time. The place is half empty, anyway.’

In the stacks Arthur Tooth groaned his way through the works of Bergson, on whom someone was writing a dissertation. Lewis realized that soon he and Arthur would be the only ones who took this particular library seriously, and he wished that he too might have an apanage of allowable distractions. In academic life fortune favours those who have their eccentricities to speak for them. But Lewis supposed himself to be too dull ever to give eccentricity a foothold. He
was doomed to a sobering consciousness of life’s unrelenting inconsistency.

‘I’ll take Emmy to lunch with pleasure,’ he said, again with a smile. They brought good humour with them, these two, and he was grateful.

Her own smile broadened to meet his.

‘Could we have a picnic?’ she asked. ‘It’s such a lovely day. We could take a cab to Selfridges, pick up something to eat, and sit in the park.’

This relieved Lewis, who had not known where to take her; he rarely ate in fashionable restaurants, where he supposed she would want to go. It never occurred to him that she might have taken care of herself for an hour or two, or if it did only fleetingly; the idea made him ashamed. People like Emmy, and probably Pen too, were not forced to find their entertainment, or their sustenance on their own. They were the natural recipients of the solicitude of others. Besides, the adventure appealed to him. It was a fine day, sunny, though a little windy; the inhibitions of winter cried out to be cast aside. And there was something innocent in the prospect of a picnic, although he doubted if he would tell Tissy about it. This thought constituted his first infidelity.

‘What will you want to do afterwards?’ he asked her. ‘Will you want to come back here and wait for Pen?’

‘Oh, no,’ she said, looking at him. ‘I’ll go home afterwards.’

‘Only I shall have to be back by about two-thirty.’

‘Oh, don’t let her be a nuisance,’ said Pen. ‘Just put her in a cab. I’m off. Terribly good of you, Lewis. Behave yourself,’ he said to Emmy, and kissed her. Briefly, the library took on a broader, more permissive aura, a place where plans could be discussed and meetings arranged. Lewis had never thought of it in this light before. He liked the thought; it enlarged the dimension of the day’s activities. The work too might benefit, although he could see that far less would get done. But he was tired of his labours, and even of the honourable spirit in which they were conceived.
All was effort in his life. And it was such a beautiful spring day. Surely even he, Lewis Percy, was entitled to enjoy the spring?

In the taxi he was aware of the smell of her mimosa scent. They said very little, merely watching the hectic sun flashing on the glass fronts of shops, aware of the growing green of the trees. He turned to her with a feeling of ease, a new feeling.

‘Will you go back to Wales?’ he asked. ‘Or have you moved into the flat already?’

‘Oh, I’ll go back and collect some furniture,’ she said, running her hand through her hair, which the sun had turned to a reddish brown. ‘About the end of the month, I suppose. The flat is an absolute tip. I dare say I’ll stay with Pen while I get it cleaned up.’

‘Will you want any help?’ he was surprised to hear himself say. He half hoped that she had not heard him. There was no way in which he could explain anything of this kind to Tissy, although it might have amused him to watch Emmy in her native habitat. In fact any excuse to get out would have been welcome. Life at home was so restrained that their habits had settled round them like grave clothes. Tissy hardly noticed if he went out for a walk in the evenings, although she would be sure to notice if he went anywhere specific. Very occasionally, she would accompany him as far as her mother’s, this being the only location she could accept. Even here, few words were exchanged, for they found Mrs Harper in front of her own television, and, as far as Lewis could see, more or less happy with her own taciturn company. This exercise was known as ‘looking in on Mother’. ‘You see her every day,’ Lewis would point out. ‘Yes, but she gets lonely in the evenings.’ It amazed him that women could be content with so little.

‘Are you very hungry?’ he asked.

‘I’m always hungry,’ said Emmy.

‘So am I,’ he said.

At Selfridges she took charge, bought rolls, butter, cheese,
fruit, and a bottle of Muscadet. He followed her with a carrier bag. ‘We’ll need knives,’ he warned her. ‘And glasses.’

‘Downstairs,’ she said. She surveyed the contents of the bag. ‘You go,’ she urged. ‘Give me the bag. I’ll wait here.’ By the time he got back she had added a box of doughnuts, half a pound of bacon, and a dozen eggs. ‘I hope you don’t mind,’ she smiled. ‘I got some stuff for this evening.’ Lewis surrendered a large note. ‘Hang on,’ said Emmy, darting away. She came back with two bars of chocolate and a pineapple. Her attitude to food seemed to be temporary, festive, far removed from the rendering of raw materials that engaged so much of Tissy’s time. The results of his wife’s cooking were acceptable, but not particularly gratifying. This lunch was more in the nature of a children’s party. He knew he would be hungry later, for he could not concentrate on eating when there was so much of Emmy to engage his attention. Together they carried the bag out into the lunchtime crowds.

‘Pen tells me you’re writing a book,’ she said. ‘What’s it about?’

‘Actually, it’s finished,’ he said, with some surprise. He had not registered the fact until now. ‘I’ve only got a couple of pages of notes to type up. I can do that tomorrow and send it off by the weekend. I know it by heart.’ He wondered briefly what he would do with himself once he no longer had his book to keep him company. He supposed he would simply have to start another one.

‘I expect you’ll start another one,’ she said, echoing his thoughts. He quailed as he thought of the unpopularity this would cause at home. Yet Emmy did not seem to think that writing a book was a bad idea, and he warmed to her, on this slight pretext, for her acceptance. The fact that the pretext was so slight, so infinitesimal, should have alerted him. That it did not – that the remark probably reflected only indifference – was nothing to him; he still accepted it gratefully.