The Dwarfs (9 page)

Fifteen

Virginia sat in an armchair, resting a glass on her lap. With her spoon she poked at the tealeafed lemonstrip and watched the sun move among the vases. The others were talking. She straightened her skirt at her knees, leaned forward to place the glass on the mantelpiece, lay back and closed her eyes.

- Our intellectuals and the masses? Pete was saying. They do one of four things. They either ignore them, pity them, re-create them to mean something else, or complain about them. If you do the first you limit your scope and you’re a fool. If you do the second you’re not an intellectual. If you do the third you’re wasting your time. And if you do the fourth you’re just like me.

- What is a mass? Mark asked.

- Get out of it. Haven’t you ever heard of the poor, downtrodden, hardpressed, chainganged, pulverized lot of Jesuses who tell us what to do?

- They only go about in hired cars, Len said. I’ve never seen one of them.

Mark swallowed the remains in his glass.

- Very good tea that, Virginia.

- Good.

- Look here, Len said, I’ll tell you something for nothing. I went into the washroom at work the other day and the stationmaster, the big boss, the king of the castle, was bending over a basin washing his hands, immaculately dressed. I couldn’t believe my eyes. I stood there looking at him and I had a terrible temptation to kick him straight up the arse.

- Did you? Mark said.

- No. Do you know why? Can’t you see why? If I’d have
kicked him there and then and knocked him through the mirror, don’t you know what he would have done? He’d have turned round and said, I’m most awfully sorry, wiped his hands, and gone out. Like God. It’s exactly what God would do. It stands to reason.

- Yes, Pete said, after a while, it’s all very well, but you’ve got to keep a firm grip on your inclinations in these places. You’ve got to be armourplated. There’s a lot I could do and say if I behaved like a man and lost my temper. But what’s the point? I’d rather cut my throat than bandy words with the kind of guttersnipe I run into. Of course, what these people don’t understand is that it’s not necessary to spy through my cracks. I’m open and above board. Even the devil can peep without temerity.

- Eh? Mark said.

Virginia collected the glasses and took them into the kitchen.

- All right, Pete said, but with my hand on my thumper I’ll say this. The art of dealing with others is one, to be able to see through them, and two, to keep your trap shut. If you’ve got kop enough for the first and control enough for the second you’re a made man.

She washed, wiped and set the glasses in the dresser.

- Croquet weather, Len said, it’s croquet weather.

- The duke’s a long time coming said the duchess, stirring the tea with her other hand, Mark yawned.

- Yes, Pete said, but there’s no real weather in London. London doesn’t admit to seasons. London’s an overall condition. Know what I mean?

Virginia looked out on to the lawn.

- The point is, of course, Pete said, that we weren’t born into a world of space at all, but into a nut. The best of us only scrape the sides. Come on, Weinblatt. Do your best and put a frown on. I’m getting on to metaphysics.

Virginia came back into the room and sat down.

- I’ve discovered an art, Mark said, to find the mind’s construction in the arse.

- I wouldn’t put it past you, said Len.

- No, Pete said, this lavatory culture has its limitations. Being a literary shithouse attendant isn’t the sole aim in life. Jesus Christ, for instance, was worth his salt in other directions.

- That’s a lovely dress, Virginia, Len said, standing up.

- Haven’t you seen it before?

- Have I?

- Pete made it.

- Yes, it’s a good fit, that dress, Pete said.

Len bent down and fingered the dress at her shoulder.

- That’s a very fair piece of material.

- Wholesale or retail? Mark asked.

- Wholesale. I know a bloke.

- How much are you retail then? Len said.

- I’m not in season, Virginia said.

- Couldn’t I get hold of a fair copy in Marks and Spencer’s?

- I was lucky with that material, Pete said. I’m working on another garment now.

- What’s that? Mark asked.

- A petticoat.

Pete and Mark lit cigarettes, bending to the match from their seats.

- When are you going to do a job of work, Mark?

- Not for sometime yet.

- Where do you get your pocketmoney? Come on. You must be short on your savings by now.

- I’ve got a duchess in Hanover Square.

- Old or young? asked Virginia.

- She’s bedridden.

- I don’t doubt it, Pete said.

- As a matter of fact, Mark said, that is my earnest ambition. It’s the only way.

- Don’t kid yourself. You wouldn’t be any good as a gigolo, Pete said. A gigolo has to be faithful and satisfied with his lot. You’d be running after the kitchenmaid too and that would be your mistake. To be a gigolo requires a sense of
discipline, of dedication. All trades have their ethics. A gigolo, Mark, feels no desires other than the desire to rot away in silk pants for the rest of his life. You wouldn’t be able to have your cake and eat it.

- You’ve got something there.

- But be frank. Have you ever done an honest day’s work in your life?

- You’re under a delusion, mate, Mark said. When I’m working I’m nothing but a slave. A slave. Go on the stage yourself. Get a bucketful. Len’s got a hidden hoard. We’ll put you on the road.

- No thanks.

- Why not? They’d lap you up.

- I’d die in a week. Quite frankly, when I think of the English dramatic heritage and then look around me at the crowd of poofs and ponces that support it I feel like throwing in the sponge.

- But you’re not even in the ring. I’m the one who has to put up with it.

- Yes, I suppose you do.

- You’re damn right.

Smoke from the cigarettes mingled above the table, sliding to the windowpane. Mark crossed his legs, the table jolted, the water in the flowerbowl swayed. He blew a path through the smoke.

- A funny thing happened to me last night, Len said.

- What?

- I squashed a tiny insect while I was doing some mathematics. And I brushed the remains off my finger with my thumb, without thinking about it. Then I realized that the fragments were growing like fluff. As they were falling, they were becoming larger, like fluff. I had put my hand into the body of a dead bird.

- What mathematics were you doing? Mark asked.

- Geometry.

- There’s your answer.

- Anyway, Len said, I made a decision on the strength of it. I’ve decided to go over to Paris next week.

- Paris? Pete said. What for?

- How can I tell you what for?

- Alone? Mark asked.

- No. With a bloke at Euston. An Austrian. He pops backwards and forwards. It’s an open invitation. He’s got a room there.

- But what do you want to go to Paris for? Pete asked.

- Why shouldn’t he? said Virginia.

- You don’t understand, Ginny. We’ve got Len’s interests at heart. Haven’t we, Len?

- What?

- No, Pete said, you’re quite entitled to go to Paris if you want to. It’s just that I wouldn’t do it myself, that’s all. I take it you don’t look upon it as a holiday?

- No, I suppose not. On the other hand. . .

- I thought you were going to get another job here.

- I’ll take a return ticket, Len said. I might return within the hour. Who knows?

- Well, drop us a card, Mark said.

Virginia stood up, smoothing her dress.

- I think I’ll go for a walk in the garden, she said.

- I admit, of course, that Paris has never meant much to me.

- I know what you mean. But you can never tell.

- I’ll come with you, Mark said. Show you the lilac.

Len looked up.

- Come with me?

- Not you.

- It doesn’t altogether ring true, Paris, Pete said.

Mark and Virginia walked over the lawn and stood under the arch of the lilactree.

- I like this tree.

- Mind, Mark said, catching her arm. Spider’s web.

- I didn’t see it.

- That is a beautiful dress.

- Yes.

- A man of many talents.

She plucked a leaf and pressed it to her mouth.

- Yes.

- How’s school?

- Fine.

- Do you still like the kids?

- Yes, of course.

- And they like you?

- I think so.

- Your arms are very brown.

- We went into the country the other day. The kids and me. We went to Kent.

He leaned against a bough.

- Yes?

- Mmn.

- Well, how’s Marie Saxon?

- She said to tell you she’s managed to forget you.

- Sweet.

- She said it was a hard job but her heart has healed.

- What a shame.

- Is it?

- I believe in hopeless love.

- You do?

- No, it’s not a shame. It’s nothing.

She tore the leaf across, along the spine.

- What do you do with yourself? she asked.

- This and that.

- This and what?

- Depends which way the wind’s blowing.

- Which way has it been blowing?

- I can’t really remember. What about you?

- Me?

- Yes.

- In the pink. Let’s go in.

They walked back across the lawn.

- What I mean is, Shakespeare didn’t need to go further than his own front door.

- But if someone had given him a ticket, would he have said no?

- No, I suppose not.

- They may drive me out, Len said. They may not even let me in.

- Well, I wouldn’t worry, Pete said. You must have a liberal stock of false noses by now.

- What about a stroll? Mark said.

- Yes. Good idea.

They walked out of the house and across the road towards Hackney Downs. Mark bought a paper and turned to the back page.

- See one of these books I’ve got here? Pete said, pointing to the small pile in the crook of his arm. Very interesting. About surgery in Elizabethan times. Do you know a woman once gave birth to six puppies?

- No! Len said.

- Hutton’s made a century against Essex, Mark said.

- He can’t do anything right these days, can he? Len said.

- How did she manage it? Mark said.

- Well, the point about these puppies, Pete said, is that she kept them in a pig’s bladder under her chastity blanket.

Mark threw the paper over a wall.

- For Jesus Christ’s fucking sake! Pete screamed, hurling the books at Virginia’s feet, will you stop walking between those fucking paving stones? You’re driving me mad!

- Bastard! What do you mean? Bastard!

- I’ll kill you, you fucking bitch, if you don’t stop it!

Their screams pitched and grated together. Virginia, breathless, stared at his face. A silence hummed. Turning, she walked slowly on. Pete picked up the books and he, Mark and Len continued behind her.

- Well, if I don’t see you before you go, Len, Pete said, look after yourself in Paris.

- I’ll probably see you before I go.

- Yes.

They reached the beginning of the Downs. Virginia, ahead of them, had stopped under a tree. Pete paused by the railings.

- I’ll be seeing you, he said.

- Yes, Mark said.

Len and Mark walked back along the road. In the afternoon quiet they heard Virginia sobbing. Mark looked back and saw her crouched in Pete’s arms. He stopped to light a cigarette, drawing carefully. He looked back. They were moving slowly under the avenue of trees, on to the grass. He watched them move across the field, and out of sight.

- Are you coming?

Sixteen

They’ve gone on a picnic. They’ve time for picnics. They’ve left me to sweep the yard, to pacify the rats. No sooner do they leave, these dwarfs, than in come the rats. They’ve left me to attend to the abode, to make their landscape congenial. I can’t do a good job. It’s a hopeless task. The longer they stay the greater the mess. Nobody lifts a finger. Nobody gets rid of a damn thing. All their leavings pile up, pile mixing with pile. When they return from their picnics I tell them I’ve had a clearance, that I’ve been hard at it since their departure. They nod, they yawn, they gobble, they spew. They don’t know the difference. In truth, I sit and stir the stumps, the skins, the gristle. I tell them I’ve slaved like a martyr, I’ve skivvied till I was black in the face, what about a tip, what about a promise of a bonus, what about a little something? They yawn, they show the blood stuck between their teeth, they play their scratching game, they tongue their chops, they bring in their nets, their webs, their traps, they make monsters of their innocent catch, they gorge. Countless diversions. What about the job? What about the job in hand? After all my devotion. What about the rats I dealt with? What about the rats I saved for you, that I plucked and hung out to dry, what about the ratsteak I tried all ways to please you? They don’t touch it, they don’t see it. Where is it, they hidden it, they’re hiding it till the time I can no longer stand upright and I fall, they’ll bring it out then, grimed then, green, varnished, rigid, and eat it as a victory dish.

Seventeen

Pete walked along the east bank of the river. Under the wood-yard wall he stopped, peering.

Cow’s skull. Taken to root. No. A boulder. Dead lump of brass, battered.

Battlements of white wood jawed over the wall, clamped in frames of iron.

Palms of iron, upturned, manacled.

Deathmask of ironwood struck shadowed across the water.

A penny for the old guy.

He winked at the one star.

Only one this shift. Rest given up the ghost.

The jut of wood grunted, crisp, shaved, splintered. His heel grated gravel and dust. On to hard stone, the slope of the bridge. On the bridge’s hump he stared the river and wide reach of dark. Collected, rolled, let out. The yolk of gob flattened and sang white to a slap on the surface.

King of the horsefly world. Enemy in the knee.

Ah. Some worm’s a traitor in my camp.

Distance it.

His eyes glinted the boulder’s head on the bank.

Pawnbroker’s ball, carbuncled.

He descended to the bankpath and squatting, scrabbled in the dark under of the stone, wrenched it out of dirt. Beetles capered in the yawn. He swung the boulder. A crash, a swallow of water.

Fined thirty bob.

The river jolted, hollowed, fell from his boot. Through sliteyes he watched the slicing fall of a gull. The bird landed on pebble, padding to probe in the mud. Silently Pete moved along the shore. The gull tugged at the corpse, feet in its mouth. With a
snap the cloth of the rat’s head tore. The beak dug and pierced.

Dessert. Cheese and biscuits.

His head thumped, he turned and crossed the bridge. The fields spread out of sight and dark.

Dead as a squashed bug.

His eardrum pricked the muffle of sound, the beat.

Hold hard.

A long boat lunged a brisk pulse, along his course, past him, on the water; sucked under the bridge, stroked swift upstream. The wash stirred back, squabbling on pebble.

Athletes. Hold on. Animal in my gut. Knee argument.

Quick. Get on.

Dust in the fairground crackled and swam. The stalls ticked in the dark, shuttered.

Sweat still running. Arena sweat. Is this it?

Keep a straight line.

In the sweat of night a shunting engine cranked, stopped short. Heat of the merrygoround needled to his throat.

Knock at this gypsy door. Ask for remission.

Ask for the other exit.

A glut of bile creased into his mouth.

This is it.

Heavylegged walking he reached the lock. The river became canal.

Knee won’t make. Labour of birth. Gaswork now. Settle it. Steady. Hold. Would you I am?

His hand pounded staccato on the iron rail. A stab shook sauntering through his joints. Knees bent, he clutched, crouched, struck icy in the eyes.

Wash black wash black.

He summoned a grip.

Knuckle.

A clout slapped his nape, scrawled a blot of cold over his skull.

Now.

His eyelid snapped a stone down.

Father.

Yes now you’re the one dear only son only the open blood canal the only night and the one taped to be taped. What choking spit and the ornaments the makeshift grass the splintered grass. A riderless horse canal turn blowing. Blowing bubbles I am the only so the only son. Belay there to stern. Rind no yes ammonia. My throat his only rubbished son. Black all to iron. So this rust. Rust and one. Yes now you’re done and made the one dear one. Split knifestalks yellow under green the nightblades crust and silk. At the canal turn. Bitch gone black. Steel and bland. Forge I hammer I blood to forge that ice.

No hand. Gaswork top and flat. Steel dish for such my only loss. Glass how can you to the grit? Eyeball sum up in wax. To say so. To say no. To pull and parley I chat I am swabbed to now. God and his leak. Cocaine Christ. Now. Bolt. Which now lock? Mains check check mains a blowout call them in call them check no bolt. Blowlamp now. Put so put on list. Steel of steel sweat current a current to yes to again. Concrete grass shoots grey no. No price no bid. No bid no board no chalk no sale no room no place no sign no tack cold cage carbolic summer.

Alone to be alone. Shiver me out. Douse down seeing. Taped to be so. Good and all. Time about. Barge. Old sows. Water in heat. Blindabout only existing son. No barter. Closed shop at the metal crack. Yes and I know it to that. That’s all. Am I your nighwatchman? All aboard. So to see. A breather. Screw this hinge. That’s it. Cobblers on. Air so. Keep the change. Compliments of. Air now. Now tread now back. Can move. Shall move.