On Loving Josiah (2 page)

They got away with it quite satisfactorily the first term, but as
their dependence on each other increased it became more and more obvious to the world at large. When Mrs de Selincourt went to see the Headmaster to question the advisability of Eve taking on a second musical instrument when she seemed to be making so little progress with her first, the Headmaster asked simply, ‘What time does Eve get home?’ and went a deep red.

Gilbert Fitzpatrick was unceremoniously sacked later that day, and Eve was instructed to remain under the strict supervision of her parents for the next three weeks. Not strict enough, however: she ran away after a day, and was to spend the next year and a half with Gilbert in his cottage. Neither washed much, neither ate much; they spent days upon days in bed together until the sheets were crispy with dried semen.

In the September of 1980, in a state of high conscience, Gilbert persuaded Eve to sit the entrance exam for Cambridge. He sent her up to London to stay with a friend of his who taught English at Westminster Tutors, and paid out of his own pocket (by now her parents had disowned her) for his protégée to take her A Levels within the year. Eve felt happy and worked well, even taking up Greek and immersing herself in the tragedies of Aeschylus. But when she returned to Gilbert at the end of November, a bottle of champagne tucked away in her overnight bag to celebrate the end of her exams, he was dead. ‘I love you, Eve,’ he wrote, ‘but I’m
drowning
you with my own need. Be brave, but above all, be good.’ By the time she found his over-drugged body it was a week old and it smelt.

Eve’s grief quietened her. She returned to London numb and serious. She stopped reading love poetry, put aside the tragedies and took refuge in the dry-as-sawdust histories of Livy, Tacitus and Thucydides. Her family, rejoicing in the demise of the man who had robbed them of their daughter, made every effort to persuade her to come home. Mrs de Selincourt even went to London to fetch
her, arguing that she was now old enough to commute to
Westminster
Tutors and she wasn’t looking as well fed as she might. Eve surveyed her mother with wonder, as a palaeoethnologist might a new genus of ape. Mrs de Selincourt was understandably hurt, and began saying things her husband and friends had warned her against saying: namely, that the world was better off without filthy men like Fitzpatrick inhabiting it. That didn’t go down at all well. For while Eve was sitting demurely, eyes downcast, on the sofa, her landlord (Gilbert’s friend) had put himself on guard outside the room where the ill-fated meeting took place, and now swept in to send the ‘Old Witch!’ packing.

There was one further and final sally from the de Selincourt camp: Eve’s older brother George invited her to tea. George,
striding
the room, hands in pockets and with the attitude of a feisty young barrister (which he was) had tried to persuade his sister to at least go home at weekends, as their parents were terribly upset, and needed her, at least as much as she, in her heart of hearts, must need them. He was quite persuaded by his own pretty speech, and within minutes of her departure was on the phone to his mother to report back that she’d ‘distinctly softened.’ It was only later, sitting among cronies in a cramped wine bar in Chelsea, that he realised Eve had stolen £40 from his wallet.

Eve only began to be herself again the following year, in her first term at Cambridge. Despite passing her entrance exam in English she soon switched to Classics, and the faculty welcomed her with open arms. Yes, I believe there were a few weeks in which she truly excelled, delighting in her subject as much as the dons delighted in her. But what is it ‘to be oneself’? For sometimes it might just be better not to be oneself, or rather, a more perfect version of oneself. Someone who listens to others and follows their suggestions, for example. But by the end of the Michaelmas term, Eve was already fancying she knew better about almost everything than anyone. She
wrote a paper on the pre-Socratic philosopher, Heraclitus, which she immediately submitted to
Mind
, and when they didn’t publish it declared the magazine to be too ‘timorous’ for her. She began
translations
of the
Iliad
and
Aeneid
simultaneously, because the Penguin editions were not sufficiently passionate. She auditioned for the part of Medea in a Greek play, and despite not getting it, learnt the part anyway and would hover at the back of the theatre when the
rehearsals
took place, politely suggesting alternative renditions of particular speeches. When the director asked her to leave, she simply
apologized
and promised to be quiet, and seemed quite immune to the shouting and the threats which her mere presence provoked.

There are, quite probably, some very sensible, scientific words for Eve’s character: ‘bipolar personality’, ‘manic depressive’, perhaps, a box for her with a label on it and a shelf number. Some hope! Nothing could contain Eve. Rather, she was as noble and as carefree as the weather; she was like the wind changing mid-flight, she was the thunder rolling and the hot air rising, she was a wonder of nature and a natural disaster.

And it was this latter manifestation, I’m afraid, which set her on the road to a madhouse, the box of all boxes, to have and to hold until deemed more wonder than disaster. What happened was this.

It was May Week, 1982. A picnic in the meadows of Granchester, Eve and half a dozen friends swimming naked in the Cam, and then an argument. There had been a short item in the paper that morning about a prostitute who, on her deathbed, told her only son to give her ‘immoral earnings’ to a Christian charity; the son had dutifully done so, only to have the cheque refused.

‘That’s ridiculous,’ said Eve, ‘it might have been a story of
redemption
, yet it’s been thwarted by the bloody Christian Church.’

They all agreed with her, all except one called Bill who supposed in a rather dry, old fogeyish way that the charity might have been accused of money laundering.

‘Why did the son tell the charity where the money had come from?’ put in one of the girls.

‘Because he wanted to tell the truth,’ said Eve. ‘To share in his mother’s deathbed confession purified him, too. After all, he was probably the son of one of her clients.’

‘I’m not persuaded,’ said Bill. ‘Stories of redemption are
passé
. And isn’t it worth making a stand against corruption?’

So far so good. The little party was warm and well-wined, the girls still topless after their swim, Bill lying stark naked on the grass proving once and for all to his girlfriend what a free spirit he could be.

Eve rolled over on top of him, ‘Do you think I’m corrupt, Bill?’

‘Get off him, Eve,’ said the girl whose boyfriend he was. The
boyfriend
was having an erection.

‘If I did a sponsored fuck for charity, would the charity accept it, do you think? Would that meet with your moral approval?’

‘Get off me,’ said Bill.

‘If by making love to me, you knew you would save the lives of ten starving children in Africa, couldn’t I tempt you?’

Then she wet her forefinger with her tongue, and slowly stroked his lips with it. ‘How much would you pay me, Bill?’

There was a pause. Interestingly, the others put on their clothes before physically pushing Eve off him.

‘Challenge me,’ she said. ‘Go on, challenge me.’

‘We challenge you,’ said Bill’s girlfriend, because she wanted Eve to be treated like the whore she was.

It wasn’t difficult. It took three days and three nights; 148 lovers, paying on average £18–00 each, raised a spectacular £2664. And as she explained to Mr Frederick Upton, that fine, longstanding
commissar
of Christian Aid in the Cambridge district, as she thrust both cash and cheques into his hands, each and every act was one of love: for they did not choose her, but she, them, and indeed, the entire
operation was conducted with the utmost propriety, and, said Eve, blowing the word into Mr Upton’s unhappy ear, ‘whispering’.

‘Whispering?’ repeated the incredulous Mr Upton.

‘Yes,’ proclaimed Eve, proudly. ‘I would whisper, “I’m making love for charity, and I would like to make love to you.” And I told them the truth, Mr Upton. Let me assure you that I’d never dream of using my body as a mere vehicle for men’s lust. I certainly don’t know what you use your body for, sir, but I use mine to express love. And when my sponsors asked me to tell them more, I would explain that the Greek root of the word ‘charity’ was love, the very highest form of love, and I was merely enjoying the lowest form of love to reach the echelons of the highest. And I would whisper in the dear boys’ ears, “Socrates himself would have understood where I was coming from. Come with me!”’

Mr Upton was trying to put a generous angle on things; the girl, perhaps, had merely missed out on a sound Christian upbringing; and he began gathering up the money which had spilled out onto the floor while he muttered, ‘Goodness me! Goodness me!’

‘I do so admire men like you!’ gushed Eve, suddenly. ‘I’ve always liked older men, all my life I have, I swear I like their constancy!’

‘Constancy?’ Mr Upton queried.

‘I suppose because I am thoroughly inconstant.’

‘Surely…’ began Mr Upton. The ‘not’ stayed put.

‘You don’t mind me asking if you’re married?’

‘Now, now, dear,’ Mr Upton managed.

‘Are you?’ Eve persisted.

‘Indeed, I’m a widower.’ Mr Upton looked distinctly uneasy, and cast a look towards his secretary’s door.

Eve kicked off her shoes and planted herself on Mr Upton’s desk, dangling her legs in front of him.

‘I’m not sure this is money we should accept. You understand, we are a Christian charity. Now, here, here,’ (quaked the poor man as he
gathered up the money and put it in a plastic bag from which he’d previously shaken sandwich crumbs) ‘take it back. Thank you for your good will but you must go.’

Eve wasn’t listening to him. She picked up one of the letters on his desk and exclaimed, ‘Frederick! What a wonderful name you have! Do you mind if I call you “Frederick”? I want you to know I understand where you’re coming from. It’s a difficult decision you have to make. But Frederick, I’ve earned you over two thousand pounds for the poor and needy of the world. And if you don’t accept it what would I do with it? For my sponsors gave the money to me, no, entrusted it to me so that I should give it to you. Therefore imagine my guilt if I simply put it all in an account in my name. And look here, some of these cheques have already been made out to “Christian Aid”. Now, I insist you dispose of them, not I, for in each one I see a “Thank you” and a human life changed for the better.’

Mr Upton’s head was in overdrive; she had a point, he thought. Perhaps he should keep the cheques and she the cash… but that was inconsistent. If it had all been given in good faith, perhaps he really should keep the whole lot. For the Cambridge district branch of Christian Aid had had a lean year, his fundraising abilities
questioned
, and worse, his impending retirement looked forward to by several young evangelists.

‘You look worried, Frederick,’ said Eve, gently. ‘I tell you what you must do. Come lay your head here on my lap. The velvet of my skirt is so soft. Feel it, Frederick. You’ll look just like John the Baptist’s head on Salome’s pillow. My heart’s contracting at the very thought. What love she had for him, that poor woman.’

And even in the second that followed, the way was not clear for poor Mr Upton, not clear at all. For to his shock and horror a part of him yearned to lay his head on the beautiful Eve’s lap, and be stroked softly by her, for the years had treated him harshly, and even his dead wife had never looked so tenderly at him.

But his better part suddenly stood to attention.

‘Mavis’ he called, barging into her office, ‘Mavis, there’s a woman in here and she’s not welcome.’

Eve indignantly jumped off the desk and said, ‘Who’s Mavis? What’s she doing here?’

Mavis was equally indignant, but was used to defending Mr Upton from predators. She was a short, dumpy woman with a great chest like a buttress and stood between him and the velveteen
spectacle
before her.

‘Mr Upton, do you wish me to call the police?’

‘Not yet, Mavis. She does seem to have calmed down a little.’ Mr Upton instinctively brushed down his suit and resumed a serious air. He looked at Eve and said, ‘If you go of your own accord, and take the money with you, we can forget this ever happened.’

But Eve would have none of it. ‘How could you betray me like that, Frederick? How could you just turn me in like that? Just when I felt the stirrings… Oh, oh Frederick, just when I was beginning to love you, for what is love but the spirited and unconditional
acceptance
of another human being?’

‘She’s a mad woman,’ said Mavis.

‘And she’s a jealous one,’ retorted Eve. ‘I can spot a rival a mile off. She loves you, too, doesn’t she?’

(And indeed Mavis did, and had for many years, even before the death of his wife.)

‘We insist that you go! The door! Go!’ reiterated Mavis.

“‘Insist?”’ laughed Eve. ‘I’ve always thought it so funny the way people say, “I demand” and “I insist” when what they mean is, “I feel my power slipping away and I don’t like it.” And today’s your unlucky day, Mavis, today I have the power. I’m limitlessly sexy; what greater power is there? But we need privacy, don’t we,
Frederick?
Our kind of love doesn’t come in threes. Now, Mavis, there’s a dear, you couldn’t leave us, could you?’

‘You whore! You whore!’ whimpered Mavis. ‘And you look like one! Mr Upton, I’m calling the police!’ And the fretting, tutting Mavis left the two together.

Mr Upton, who was all heart when it came to it, found himself quite confused. He even found himself feeling faint pricklings of desire for the young girl as she took his hand in hers.

‘Eve, you must go, go now before it’s too late,’ he said, anxiously, withdrawing his hand a few seconds later than he might have.

Then Eve stood on her toes and planted a wet kiss on Mr Upton’s mouth.