Flight into Camden Page 20

  His anger wearied Howarth. After the Welshman had gone, he said, ‘People like that: they make me feel so lifeless. As if it’s a weakness of mine, a lack of life, that makes me try to fit in with it all and try for something worth while. I’d hate to be like that Jackson. But he is a good teacher, and he is small-minded. And I can see myself getting more like him every day. Do you think I haven’t the strength to complain, to object?’

  ‘You’ve got the strength, and you know you have.’

  He shook his head in bewilderment. And he didn’t bring the Welshman home again, he didn’t even mention him, and his information about school diminished.

  He didn’t care. He was doing a task which someone else could have done, a little better or a little worse. There was no privilege or uniqueness in it. Yet although he tolerated it like this, it wore him away, slowly, closing up channels, reducing him to that hardness of spirit that must either crack or go on being exhausted. He had an inexplicable affection, that had no pity in it, for those schoolteachers who had endured this process, and not broken. He would point them out instinctively in the streets. They were little more than children, their spirit shrivelled to nonentity, unconsciously miming and reproducing the mannerisms of the children they taught. It was as if the final hardness only reflected their outside-world of infancy, and their adult bodies disguised the crumbled residue of a man. They were children themselves, Howarth would bitterly insist, tormenting himself with the inevitable result of teaching.

  One moment I wanted to laugh at him, and the next to cry. But these images haunted him, the images of reduced people, as if they were a strange and threatening race, child-men who wandered about the streets and in and out of the schools. I pleaded with him to leave teaching, but he couldn’t find any alternative. ‘There’s nothing left for an educated person to do,’ he said, ‘except, under the excuse of earning a living, deliberately to distort things. In teaching I’m the only one to suffer distortion – isn’t that fair enough?’

  ‘Don’t you distort the children yourself?’

  ‘Hardly,’ he said, outraged. ‘Their distortion of me is far more merciless and instinctive.’

  He wouldn’t be moved. There was that proud silence in him at the root of it. The silence of someone waiting and assured.

  His waiting unnerved me: it was for something he needed to receive, something he expected to be given to him. And yet he didn’t seem aware of it himself. He carried on teaching as if condemned to it from birth. But I knew it couldn’t last. There was that awful straining of his spirit, when he would sit opposite me in the evening, suddenly look up, and begin to half-laugh, half-cry with a mingled frightened ecstasy. He would come to tap my knee or my shoulder, sometimes my face, with a great, visible suppression of his strength, as if he might have wanted to crush me with his one blow hadn’t something quickly intervened. Then he would stroke me for a second, with the same movement. There was this tightening suppression about him. He waited, and wondered why I was mystified by him, and physically so possessive.

  Just to see him move was enough: his big stillness stirring a moment, his head moving just for a second and his hair creasing, and the gentle pressure of his breathing. He pursed his lips when he was sleeping, pouting. Every small part of him held me: the passion of his life, of his body being alive to the smallest movement. His stillness was frightening, the suppression: he was helpless as his head rested on the pillow, confident and blind, unaware. How could he be so unconscious of himself?

  But I was always entranced by that stillness when I woke up before him and raised myself to look at him: the idea that he could be still, all that energy and feeling moulded into one. It was permanent: he was so complete. He ceased when he moved; he broke into those bewildering fragments. I loved to see him move, just that moment before his limbs broke apart: the stillness broken slowly, by a slow stir, and his head turning, his eyes empty of themselves, then seeing me, and filling with me, coming to life with that full movement of his body, smiling at the pleasure he gave me. I ached to possess him always in this silence. It was the confidence and the quietness of our coming together, as if in the stillness we had fused, and he smiling, and our eyes emptying into one another without that fear and resignation.

  12

  I was walking up Inverness Street from the bus, late home from work, when a hand gripped my arm viciously.

  Michael walked along beside me, not interrupting my stride. His face was sullen, unfrightened: there was none of the alertness of being in a strange place. ‘Are you coming home?’ he said almost wildly.

  His grip was deliberately painful on my arm. He squeezed the muscle with uncaring strength, and I tried to hide my feelings. ‘What are you doing here?’ I asked, my surprise and the strangeness blunted by an outrageous sense of pain.

  ‘Are you coming home?’ He gritted his teeth, ignoring the concern of passers-by.

  ‘No. Of course I’m not.’ I stopped myself from arguing with him: I only wanted to show my determination, and my confidence that I couldn’t be hurt.

  ‘I’m taking you home,’ he said. ‘You’ve nearly killed my mother.’

  ‘If you don’t let go my arm I’ll call for someone to help.’

  ‘Call them.’ He was wild. I didn’t recognize him. Nor what it was that enraged him.

  He tightened his grip, the flesh crunching against the bone, so that all blood and strength drained from the limb. He looked me bitterly in the face, holding his head close. ‘You’re coming!’ he said, and shook me violently.

  ‘You can do what you like. I won’t come.’

  ‘Do what I like?’ He shook me wildly again, so that my brooch dropped on the pavement, and something fell from my hair. It was as if he were bullying me as a child again. ‘You’re coming back with me. We’re not having any more of this.’ He began to propel me down the street, forcing me in front of him with all the strength of his hand on my arm. I was driven along with him. He was breathless, breathing heavily behind me. My weakness excited him; he was ecstatic in his determination. My arm lost all feeling, hanging limp and dead from his hand. He stood me on the congested pavement, searching for a taxi. The grip on my arm weakened as his hand tired. But it was still strong. When I tried to pull away he held me firmly, his face taut and white with the strain, and his eyes staring ferociously about him.

  ‘I’m not going with you,’ I told him calmly. ‘You can’t hold me like this all the way, and if you take me to the station I shall call a policeman.’

  He stared quickly at me: there was a certain madness about him. He gave my arm one final, grating squeeze until it felt in two, then released me. He was unmoved by my cry of agony as feeling returned to my arm. I massaged it, blinded by the circle of pain, my eyes shut to him, and started back up the street.

  ‘I’m coming with you,’ he said whitely. ‘I’ll kill that louse.’

  ‘I’m not going home,’ I told him, walking along in a daze.

  ‘I’ve got the address. I’ll find out this stinking little hole you’ve got.…’

  ‘You shan’t come near us.’ I couldn’t understand – the intensity of his anger, the wildness. He was like a wild animal. And needing Howarth to kill and tear.

  ‘It’s no good following me. I’m not going in until you’ve gone.’

  ‘What kind of rotten man is it that lets you go on like this?’ His feelings bled inside him. His face was still white, his mouth open.

  At the top of the street I waited at the corner, uncertain what to do. He brought a piece of paper from his pocket with a roughly drawn plan, and looked up at the name of the adjoining street. ‘This is it,’ he said. ‘You stay here. You’re going back with me, d’you hear?’

  ‘It’s no good,’ I told him quietly. ‘You can’t do it.’

  ‘You’ll have no choice.’ But just as he started looking up at the numbers, Howarth himself came striding urgently down the street. He must have been looking out, concerned at my lateness, and seen me at the corner with Mi
chael. He came down, his coat open, his face already flushed.

  Michael saw him a moment after me, and started towards him. But Howarth came straight to me. ‘Are you all right?’ he asked, looking intently into my face.

  I nodded and said, ‘Yes.’

  ‘You’re white.’ He peered anxiously at me, not sure of his fear.

  Michael waited a few yards behind him. His lips were compressed and trembling. When Howarth turned towards him he said, ‘I’m taking her back with me.’

  ‘You’ve come a long way for nothing, then,’ Howarth replied. ‘Because you’re not taking her anywhere while I’m here.’

  He could have swamped Michael. He stood facing him calmly, not even surprised, as though he’d been expecting this all along.

  ‘Her mother’s seriously ill,’ Michael said bitterly, his face so threatening that in a moment I thought he would have to throw himself on Howarth.

  Howarth watched him, then turned back to me. ‘Is it true?’ he asked.

  ‘I don’t know.’ I shook my head, my eyes widening and blinded with tears.

  ‘Come on, we’ll go in,’ he said, taking my arm. I winced, and he stared suspiciously at me. ‘Are you sure you’re all right?’

  ‘Yes … But I won’t go back with him.’

  ‘No,’ he said quietly. He had already sensed something, but I wasn’t sure; I couldn’t have known what it was.

  Michael followed, so close that he pressed against me as we went up the stairs. Howarth was purposely slow then, making Michael wait when we reached the landing. He blocked the doorway a while, standing there just looking into the room, before letting him in. He turned to Michael as he came in, and said, ‘What are you doing down here?’

  ‘I’m taking her back. Even if I have to drag her.’

  ‘Well, you can’t do that, can you, while I’m here? So what then?’

  ‘I’ll wait.’ He sat down quickly, on the couch across the room. He puzzled Howarth. ‘She knows she has to go back.’

  ‘Well, I’ll give you time to cool off,’ Howarth said. ‘Then I’ll throw you out.’

  ‘Why do you lie about my mother?’ I asked him bitterly.

  ‘How long is it since you’ve seen her?’

  ‘It’s unbelievable. You’d use even her just to get your own way.’

  ‘It’s she who wants you back,’ he said calmly. ‘At least, away from here. That’s why you’re coming back with me.’ He gazed at me with a brotherly confidence, excluding Howarth. There was something in it more than just his personal hate of Howarth. And it involved more than just the three of us.

  ‘You all know what I feel. I told my dad when he came down. So what’s the use of you waiting?’

  ‘Yes. I know what you told my dad. He hasn’t been back to work since.’

  ‘That’s his fault, not mine. I told him.’

  ‘And you think that’s enough?… Tell me, what do you see in Howarth, Margaret?’ He said it so seriously that if I hadn’t known him I would have taken it for sympathy. Howarth seemed almost amused by him; but he stared at him soberly.

  ‘What do you see in Gwen? Isn’t that enough for you? Or would you like to destroy this for me too?’

  ‘Gwen didn’t happen to be married with two children when I met her. She’d have told me if she had.’

  ‘This sort of baiting,’ Howarth said. ‘It won’t get us anywhere. Can’t you talk sensibly now that you’re here?’

  ‘I forgot,’ Michael apologized. ‘You’re an authority on “sensible” things. I ought to leave it to you … like this setup here. Living in this hole.… You’re a crank, Howarth, and the least you say the better.’

  Howarth was silent a moment, looking at Michael. I knew he was deciding whether to hit him. Then he said, ‘That doesn’t help much, either.’ He knew that there was something more than Michael’s personal hatred, and he looked at me strangely. ‘What Margaret wants to know is whether her mother is ill, or whether you’ve just made it up.’

  Michael didn’t answer. He wouldn’t answer. I knew that my mother must be unwell. But not that she’d sent him. Instead it seemed like some personal vengeance of Michael’s, on life, on those round about him. He didn’t believe in Howarth.

  I could hardly breathe, seeing Michael so obsessed with his hate. It seemed the hate of many people. I wanted to ease and soothe him. But he rode on my feeling, of being stretched between them. He watched me for it, wanting to use it.

  ‘Why must you try and spoil everything now?’ I asked him.

  ‘How can I spoil any of this? The whole thing is just an absolute ruination.’ He was surprised and hurt.

  ‘You seem to have destroyed every single thing in my life. Maybe it’s not true.… But I feel that you’ve tried. Everything that I’ve ever thought worth while you seem to have gone out of your way to disillusion me about.’

  He looked at me distantly, withdrawing. ‘You aren’t a child, Margaret,’ he said with confident and quiet contempt. ‘What do you think you are, talking like that?’

  ‘I want you to go.’

  ‘You’re relenting already,’ he said deeply. ‘You know you can’t go on living like this. It’s not in your nature. It’s not in any of our natures. Not even Howarth’s.’

  ‘I’m not going back,’ I moaned.

  ‘You’ll have to, Margaret, whether you want it or not.’

  Howarth went across to Michael, standing over him, but calm. ‘You’ve got to be absolutely truthful about this,’ he said. ‘It’s not a game that we’re playing. What are your reasons for coming down here like this?’

  ‘Please, Howarth,’ I told him. ‘Don’t argue. That’s just what he wants.’

  Howarth looked back at me, across the room. ‘Don’t you want to know what his real reasons are?’

  ‘I know what they are.… He hates you and all that you stand for.’

  ‘But why?’

  ‘Why?… Because you aren’t what he is.’

  ‘Have we all to be like him?’ He was nearly smiling at me, knowing full well what I meant.

  ‘No. You’ve just to be nothing. That’s how he wants you. And if you’re not.… This! This is what he does!’

  I pulled off my coat. The bruise was thick and purple, swelling the arm. The muscle looked almost distorted. ‘That’s what he does!’

  Howarth hadn’t moved. He looked at my arm, then slowly back at Michael. ‘You are a brave man.’

  ‘I made that mark,’ Michael stated, as if it explained everything. ‘That’s what I felt.’ His eyes looked small and empty. ‘How can you go on, Margaret, when you see this sort of thing happen? It’s against everything in us.’

  ‘It’s against everything in you!’ I cried at him. ‘In you and my mother and my dad. But this is me. This what I’ve got. It’s got nothing to do with you.’

  ‘You’re wrong.’ He shook his head, looking up at me, past Howarth, with half-fearing eyes. ‘It’s not only you it concerns. And it’s not all you’ve got left.’

  ‘It’s all I’ve got.’

  ‘I think you’d better go,’ Howarth said to him.

  ‘I can’t go!’ Michael flung his fist against the back of the seat. ‘Don’t you see? I can’t go without her!’ He dazed me with his blazing frustration and demand. ‘I’ve got to take Margaret back with me. You can do what you like about yourself. But don’t go crawling to some suffering woman for support. I’ve never known a man condone his own weaknesses as you’ve done, Howarth.’

  ‘You don’t have to be like this,’ Howarth said. He was still patient, but there was a heaviness in his voice. I could hardly understand the control that he had. ‘Why don’t you try and help us instead of being so bitter? Surely you could have consoled your parents. I’d have thought, if you had any feeling at all for Margaret, that you’d have tried first to help her in the way that she wanted.… Instead, you give us both the impression that all this is only an excuse for some sort of private revenge. God knows on what.’

  ‘I’v
e simply got to take her back,’ Michael said, deep in his frustration. ‘My mother and father won’t be consoled by me. It was my idea to leave you alone down here. But Margaret – she’s the closest thing they’ve got to their understanding. Somehow you’ve crumbled all their lives for them. They’re my parents. I can’t stand by and do nothing.’

  He stared up at Howarth. For a terrible moment there seemed to me to be a bond between the two men. They examined each other’s eyes, then Howarth looked away.

  ‘And there’s your own wife and children, Howarth. I don’t know how much was disappointment in her, or how much in yourself. But you’re crushing just too much. Margaret has to come home. It’s absolutely essential.’

  Howarth shook his head, as if he were denying something to himself. ‘She has her own choice to make,’ he said.

  ‘Then it’s settled,’ I told him.

  Howarth was looking plainly at Michael. ‘But you must come, Margaret,’ Michael said.

  ‘Back to that prison? Don’t you credit me with any feeling, Michael? Any at all? I must be like a lump of stone to you, to be thrown from one person to another whenever anyone feels like it.’

  ‘You don’t have to stay,’ he said slowly. ‘Just come back. I’ll leave it to you what you do then. I promise that. When you see my mother and dad you can make your own mind up.…’

  ‘Do you think I didn’t make up my mind before I came down here? I don’t understand you.… I’m wedded to Howarth in every possible way except for that rotten bit of paper.’

  ‘I promised my mother I’d bring you back.’

  Howarth had said nothing. I couldn’t feel him. Then he suddenly took hold of my shoulders, turning me round. His eyes were wide and still, as if with shock. ‘I think you’d better go back,’ he said.

  ‘But I can’t!’

  ‘Nay, I don’t mean for ever. I mean just to show them.’ He smiled strongly at me. ‘If your brother can’t help them, then you must … I think it’s best at least to try.’