Strange Music (7 page)

While the two of them took the promised shower in the Brandons' bathroom – and incidentally discovered that the orange pigment must have contained some chemical that caused it to dye human skin – Eric went around the other flats telling everyone they simply had to come and see what the Fergusons' old place looked like now.

Faith Bullen-ffitch was the only strong dissenter. On their way back across the yard, she said, ‘I know Tony thinks the world of Chris and I'm sure he's a most talented painter, and Adam thinks that what with all the babies everybody's been having, we're all getting a bit bourgeois and need stirring up, but I do wonder if the sort of stirring Chris Riley-Potter and Nina what's-her-name are going to wreak upon the community is quite what he has in mind?' Then, turning to Angela: ‘Why did you say you liked it? I can't see anything to like. They've made a terrible mess of the floorboards.'

Angela just shrugged, and put the kettle on the range. ‘Tea, anyone?'

There was a knock at the cottage door. Eric opened it and came in without waiting for an answer. ‘Mind if I hide out here for a while?' he asked. ‘Mrs Brandon is being terribly sweet and encouraging to Chris and Nina and I can't take any more of it.'

‘Well,' Faith answered him. ‘We had just decided not to say another word on the subject of Chris and Nina. I think they'll prove disruptive – which may, in turn, prove to be the grit in the oyster. Or just grit, of course. Angela is . . . what, darling? Lukewarm to indifferent? And Felix is worried.'

‘Me?' Felix protested. ‘Don't be absurd. Why d'you say that?'

‘Because you're opening a tin of baked beans – and that's what you always do when you're worried.'

Felix started to protest but Angela cut in: ‘My God, she's right! I never noticed that, or never made the connection – but that's what you always do. And d'you know what I do? When I'm in a state? I straighten up all the notes on my pinboard and start to check that all the papers in the files are in their correct order – until I
realize
what I'm doing and force myself to stop. Oh, Felix! Will we ever . . .' The thought petered out.

‘Survival behaviour!' Eric murmured.

‘I just like baked beans,' Felix said as he took up a well-used wooden spoon and stirred the saucepan on the stove. ‘If you want to be
useful
, Eric, you could cut a few slices of bread and pop them in the toaster.' After a short silence he added, ‘But you could be right, Faith. I am . . . “worried” isn't quite the word. What would you call the feeling when an unexpected parcel arrives and it might contain a kilo of the finest beluga caviar or just a pile of shit – which actually happened to a Jewish couple I knew in Paris – the shit, not the caviar. What's the word for that?'

‘A paradigm,' Eric said. ‘It's a paradigm for life in general.'

‘Trepidation,' Faith told him.

‘OK, I feel trepidation about Chris coming to join the community. He's a powerful painter, a man with vision—'

Eric interrupted him. ‘You mean it's like someone saying, “Oh but you absolutely
must
read this book – it could have been written
for
you.” And you know the bugger's right but you still don't want to borrow it or read it or have anything to do with it. Well . . . you're not the only one, mate.' He explained why he had run up to the flat and how he'd been inveigled into collaborating over the body prints.

‘God in heaven!' Angela said. ‘You mean the inspiration was yours?'

‘No! Precisely the opposite. I thought,
What is the most ridiculous suggestion I can make?
But it also had to be something they'd swallow hook, line, and sinker. So, seeing the footprints they'd already made, I suggested the whole body prints. But even as I put it into words, I felt it was actually an exciting idea as well. Mind you, that may just have been at the prospect of painting Nina, naked, all over, with orange distemper.'

‘You
did that?' Angela and Faith asked almost in unison. Felix laughed.

‘Yeah, I wasn't going to say – until I realized that Nina isn't going to keep her trap shut. So what the hell! It was fun. They tried to embarrass me and discovered I'm made of sterner stuff.' After a ruminative silence he concluded, ‘All the same, I don't think the life is going to trundle along in the same old way once Chris Riley-Potter and Nina move in.'

Wednesday, 14 December 1949

Faith waited until she saw the light go on over Eric's drawing board. Then, coffee in hand – so as to look sort-of casual – she crossed the yard, tapped on his window, and mimed at him,
Can we talk?
She let herself into the Brandons' flat and was about to call out ‘Only me!' when she heard Isabella and Eric at their favourite pastime. She hesitated outside Eric's studio door.

‘How can you live in all this dust?' Isabella asked.

‘Well, in the first place, it isn't
all this
dust, it is
a very fine film
that most people wouldn't even notice. But as to your question – “How do I
live
in it” – I confess I only have the haziest—'

‘If I let our sitting room get like this we'd both die of hay fever.'

‘Would it be as simple as that?'

‘What d'you mean?'

‘Well, since I can clearly tolerate a fine film of dust like this, whereas you, or so you claim, would die of—'

‘Oh, ha ha. What I came in here to ask was why did you leave the lid off the toothpowder tin?'

‘Oh, dear. That's a real tough one. Especially at this time in the morning. I could lie and say I simply forgot but we both know enough Freud to realize that things are never so simple. My subconscious must have been struggling very hard to express—'

‘Just don't do it again.'

‘Hang on. Don't go. I must write that down word-for-word . . . Don't . . .? What was it?'

But Isabella had already left the room. On seeing Faith waiting not six feet from the door, she said, ‘Did you hear him?' And as she passed by she added, ‘You are
so
lucky!'

And finally, at the top of the short flight of stairs that led up to the rest of their flat: ‘See if you can talk some sense into him.'

‘D'you think you'll manage it?' Eric asked as she entered his studio.

‘She must be psychic,' Faith replied. ‘Actually, it's not so much to talk sense as to see whether we agree on certain basic ground rules – if you're going to write two of these volumes for Manutius.'

‘You've brought a contract? Pull up a pew.'

She nodded. ‘It's over in my room. We can sign it this morning if we can agree certain ground rules.' She sat down after he had ostentatiously wiped that invisible coating of dust from the seat. ‘The only writing of yours I know is your children's books and the thing I notice is that you never come out with anything straight . . .'

Without turning round, Eric reached behind him and plucked a book at random from his shelves. He opened it and read: ‘“In a cellar in Threadneedle Street, in the heart of the City of London, lived a family of mice and all their relations.” Not straight, eh? Would you have preferred it to go—'

‘No, I don't mean in places like that. But later on, when Titchy Mouse sees his brother climbing the rope to go on board the ship . . .'

Eric gawped at her. ‘You've actually
read
this tale?'

‘I've read just about everything you've written, Eric.' She held out her hand for the Titchy Mouse book. ‘Yes,' she went on after flipping a couple of pages. ‘This is the sort of thing: “Little Sammy's lip trembled. There was a stinging feeling behind his eyelids and soon the tears began to fall.” Why didn't you just say: “Poor little Sammy was very sad and soon began to cry”?'

Eric spoke patiently: ‘Because my readers for that book are about eight years old. They are Jung and easily Freudened.'

‘I beg your pardon?'

‘Granted. Go and get the contract.'

‘No! I meant . . . what did that mean – Jung and easily Freudened?'

‘Lips trembling, prickling eyelids, tears falling . . . these are
sensations
. They speak directly to my little readers' own experiences. They've all been there. But: “Sammy was sad and began to cry” is just a report. It has to be teased apart and reassembled into an eight-year-old's raw sensations. Actually, it's no different from stories for grown-ups. If I write, “Isabella was furious as she turned her car into the driveway of their home,” I'm writing a report that the reader has to reassemble into . . . what? The grim set of Isabella's jaw . . . the way she grinds her teeth . . . her white knuckles on the steering wheel . . . the way she jams on the brakes and then slams the door as she steps out . . . the way she yells “
Eric!
” before she's even through the front door. So why write reports when you can be so wonderfully graphic? Why
tell
when you can
show
, instead?' He smiled mischievously and, turning toward the door, called out, ‘Come in, darling. Faith won't mind.'

‘I just thought you might like some coffee,' his wife said wearily as she came in, bearing a tray with three Denby stoneware coffee mugs, a matching coffee pot, sugar bowl, cream jug, and a plate holding three shortbread fingers.

Faith docked her own coffee cup on the window sill.

‘You'll find this coffee much tastier than that stuff Felix and Angela serve,' Isabella assured her. ‘The Austrians understand coffee but the Germans haven't the first idea.'

‘It's the same with television,' Eric continued, as if there had been no interruption at all. ‘It's all
tell
even though they're actually
showing
it, too. I've been watching it lately, up in the Johnsons': factual programmes, like the one the other night on London's markets. There were super pictures of Covent Garden, Billingsgate, Smithfield, Petticoat Lane, et cetera, and the commentary, I'll swear, was lifted straight out of some tourist guidebook. I think what they do is write a script and then go out and film pictures to go with it. That seat has half an inch of dust on it, darling – do be
terribly
careful, knowing how susceptible you are. And then they don't change a word of the script once they've got the film – even if the pictures make the same point. Or even much better ones. And they speak in that Bah-Bee-Cee voice which could turn a rainbow grey. It's very sad when you think what “the telly”
could
be like. Darling! You have some astounding insight to contribute, I'm sure. I know when you get that creative look in your eye and the birds all start singing in minor keys.'

‘Not about “the telly,”' Isabella said. ‘I couldn't care less about “the telly.” I've just had Selincourt on the phone about their spring collection. They're willing to pay us fifty quid to use the Dower House as a location for a photo shoot – mainly the front steps, the ballroom, the lawn, our drawing room with the Adam fireplace . . . I told them it was Adam—'

‘And, of course, Chris and Nina's womb-of-time,' Eric added. ‘By “us” you mean the communal fund?'

‘Of course.'

‘And Felix's studio?' Faith asked. ‘He's working on a quarter-size maquette for the bronze globe for
BOAC
in Buckingham Palace Road. It's impressive.'

‘If there's no problem with copyright – yes. Super. I don't think we'll need a communal meeting, do you – not if I speak to people individually? It'll be next weekend, Saturday and Sunday. One problem is they want to bring two borzois.'

‘Ballet dancers!' Eric was surprised.

Isabella ignored him. ‘I'll have to warn Nicole about Fifi and Xupé.'

‘And Adam,' Eric said. ‘No. On second thoughts, better to warn the mannequins about
him
.' When Isabella had gone, he turned to Faith. ‘Funny name – mannequins . . . mannikins . . . little dwarfs? Anyway, what did you really pop over here for? A chat about storytelling techniques?
Everything
is storytelling, Faith. A bus timetable tells a story. “How to repair a puncture” is a story. Will Heathcliff get Cathy – a story—'

‘. . . and a half!'

‘Exactly! Each kind of story has its appropriate technique – and I am master of them all. So you'd better nail me down on the Rock of Manutius,
PDQ
as Willard says, or someone else will poach me. I'll give you ten minutes.'

Her eyes narrowed. ‘Have you been talking to other publishers?'

‘OK, make that ten years. But that's my final offer.'

With a sigh, Faith picked up her own coffee cup, and went to fetch the contract.

When it was signed – all three copies – she said, ‘I was interested in what you were saying earlier, about
TV
documentaries . . .'

‘You disagree?'

‘No. Quite the contrary. Listen, Angela has brought some film back from the Bah-Bee-Cee, as you call it. And a projector – sixteen mil. I don't know what it's about but, considering its source, it probably has all those faults you savaged just now. Would you like to put some flesh on those brave words of yours – that you are master of all storytelling techniques – and write your own commentary?'

‘What are you paying?'

‘Nothing. But' – her raised finger stemmed his refusal – ‘I've been thinking of switching from publishing to television for a couple of years, as I'm sure you know – and I think the time has come. But there'll be an interview at the
BBC
, of course, and I don't want to . . . I mean, it would be impressive if I could sit there with an actual example of the sort of change I'd like to influence, if I had the chance. I'll pay whatever actor we can get to read your script and I'll meet all the recording and dubbing costs. All that will be on spec. That'll be my contribution. If you write the script on spec, that'll be your contribution. And if I get the job, I'll dig a hole and pull you through. So are you in or out?'