Lewis Percy (25 page)

Marriage to him meant order, infidelity disorder, even chaos. And behind this simple fact came the subdivisions of order: a quiet and regulated life, predictable but manageable longings, an old age that could be anticipated without fear. And children: he longed for children. Apart from Andrew, whom he saw perhaps once a year, he had no family. He came from a short line of dead people. Surely, even with her restricted imagination, Tissy could see that his was the natural path? He was in no sense exceptional, and never would be. Perhaps his disappointment in finding his wife to be as unexceptional as himself was unworthy. He knew now
that together they might have had a peaceable life, but that it would have been a life without growth. Yet he dreaded to see the possibility of such a life taken away by this ugly hackneyed return to the red house, with its over-large, over-important furniture, and its smell of caramel. That reminded him: he had not eaten since breakfast. He had missed lunch, had wandered round Lincoln’s Inn Fields, thinking of Emmy. Even that had been wrong. Disorder was already apparent in everything he did. Miserably, he longed for his wife, and the restitution of their life together before this unimaginable, this ludicrous disaster had overtaken him. That he must appear apologetic, importunate, a figure of fun, did nothing to reassure him.

At last, heavy-hearted, he had turned to go. He was obliged to open the front door himself, since Mrs Harper’s brand of hospitality had reverted to the peculiar unfriendliness that had been his impression on first meeting her. She stood and watched him, not hostile, not really indifferent, merely incurious as to the state of his own feelings. That, of course, was the quality which both mother and daughter shared: incuriosity. Faced with this he felt suddenly frightened. Who would care for him now? How long would he have to go home to an empty house? Pure panic seized him when he thought of his inevitable descent into illness and squalor, or, if not these, then certainly eccentricity, of which he had previously given no sign. He had seen elderly scholars in the library, locked for years inside someone else’s biography, and now recognizable by their dull ties, their unpolished shoes, the hair straggling down their necks. He would probably become like one of them. His heart broke with loneliness, and because he could not trust his voice to speak he had merely lifted his arm in farewell to Mrs Harper and gone out into the night.

This, then, was what he had to face, and he knew he must be very vigilant. He knew that he must lose neither his feelings nor his manners in the days to come. Dignity would go as soon as he would be forced to explain himself and his
situation to a third party, but sensibility, with a bit of luck, could be retained. No heroic attitude would be available to him, and he now began to doubt the reality of such attitudes. Heroic behaviour was a contributory factor to the madness of art: it had little to do with the untidiness, the shabbiness, the sheer randomness of life itself.

At home he noted that Tissy had apparently disposed of everything in the larder, and had disdained further shopping as being beneath her wounded dignity. This was as much as he had expected; in that sense he was adapting to the situation. He poured himself a glass of milk and went into the bedroom. Oddly enough, he did not miss her here. In bed with her, he had always felt uncomforted, and sometimes his dreams had shown himself as longing to be free. What he felt now was a coldness, as if he were, or had become, a much older man. It even seemed to him that there was a new stiffness in his movements, but the hour was late, and he was uneasy on so many levels that he sought the solace of his bed without any further nod towards the implications of his condition. He slept the black sleep of grief, or of bereavement.

In the morning he went to the library as usual. He did not think he looked any different, met no surprised glances as he walked past the porter’s lodge and up the stairs. At some point during the morning Goldsborough, now adorned with several CND badges, loomed into view.

‘A word with you, Lewis, if you would be so kind. In my office.’

Lewis wondered if he were to be dismissed. On grounds of moral cowardice, no doubt, word having got round. He was to be indicted as a poltroon, unworthy, among other things, of the office of librarian. He was sure that there was nothing wrong with his work, so it could only be his utter failure as a human being that was giving rise to Goldsborough’s concern. For Goldsborough was undoubtedly concerned; his face was uncharacteristically grave. Goldsborough too must be getting on, Lewis thought, although disguised by
a protracted boyishness, a very real
naïveté
. Yet his girth was increasing; there was no mistaking his figure for that of a younger man. He had appeared twice on a television panel discussion, but despite his grasp of events had been judged too old to appeal to the young and had been replaced by a pop singer who had found Jesus. The elements of a dawning maturity, never fully to be realized, had sent him back to his former work. Deconstruction, when all was said and done, offered more dignity and better career prospects. He had begun to feel left out of it when Lewis’s book had been accepted for publication, but had handsomely said nothing. In this way he was able not to offer congratulations, but that, he thought, was by the by. He did not believe in encouraging vanity in others.

Lewis was aware of a portentous clearing of the throat that augured no good for his situation.

‘I think you ought to know, Lewis, that your wife telephoned, very early, before you arrived, in fact. Hilary took the call; I’d only just got here myself. She said to tell you not to go round this evening. She said she was staying at her mother’s until further notice.’ He paused significantly. ‘Nothing
wrong
, is there, Lewis?’

‘Not at all,’ he said. He was burning with humiliation. ‘My wife hasn’t been too well lately. She’s gone to her mother’s for a rest.’

‘Of course, of course. These things happen. Not to worry. Take time off, if you like. Not too long, mind you.’

He managed to smile. ‘I shan’t need time off, Arnold. Thanks all the same. I’ve got rather a lot to do. If you’ll excuse me …’

He reached the haven of his desk, which was now to be his only haven, having just managed to fight back the wave of scarlet that threatened to engulf him, and which, even now, he could feel draining away, leaving a deadly pallor behind. It was only by telling himself that he would never, in the whole of his life, be so utterly miserable again that he was still able to function. So this is it, he thought, journey’s
end. What made it infinitely worse was the way in which Tissy had told the world of his plight. Everybody knew, of course. It was no use pretending that nothing was wrong. At this point he accepted that he was alone again. He looked humbly round him at the library, and applied himself with infinite care to his index cards. In the middle of the morning Pen came to his desk, laid a hand briefly on his shoulder, and said, ‘Usual place? Half-past twelve?’ Some little while later Arthur Tooth came creaking alongside and deposited a barley sugar on one of the piles of off-prints that he was cataloguing. Thanks, Arthur,’ said Lewis, clearing his throat.

He found that he had very little to say to Pen, who, in turn, had very little to say for himself. By mutual consent they avoided the subjects of Tissy and Emmy, and Lewis would not mention George unless Pen brought his name into the conversation. But having reached some sort of parity of exposure both knew that their friendship was intact, and that only a little delicacy was needed to keep it in good repair. At the end of a largely silent hour they turned to each other and smiled.

‘Well,’ said Lewis, with an attempt at cheerfulness. ‘I suppose we’re grown up now. Not that I ever entertained serious hopes of any real wisdom.’

‘I suppose you could say that. Although it doesn’t feel right, somehow, does it?’

They walked thoughtfully back to the college.

‘One last word, Lewis,’ said Pen. ‘Don’t get drunk. It doesn’t help. We could have a meal this evening, if you like?’

‘I’d better go home,’ said Lewis. ‘In case I’m needed, or there’s a message, or something. I’d better stay in, if you don’t mind.’

He knew, in a curious way, that he had to begin a new apprenticeship, and that the sooner he applied himself the better it would be for him. If, as he supposed, solitariness was again to be his portion, he would embrace it, and do his best to see what it would teach him. For he did not doubt that
there was still much to be learnt. With this new resolution he managed the afternoon quite well, although he found himself nervous as the hands of the big clock advanced towards six. He had offered to stay late, but everyone seemed to think that he should be offered the treat of a leisurely evening.

He walked home, through drizzling rain, making the uncomfortable journey last as long as possible. He ate a vile pie and drank a half of bitter in a pub. As he approached his house his steps quickened, and he told himself that he could see a light in an upstairs window. But it was only the reflection of a street lamp, as he really knew, and he let himself into an empty house. There was truly no one there. He looked for a letter or a message, but all he found was a parcel, which must have been taken in by Mrs Joliffe. It contained six copies of
The Hero as Archetype
, sent by the publisher. He glanced at them indifferently, stowed them at the back of a cupboard, and went to bed.

12

His daughter, Jessica, was born early one evening after a cold day in March. Lewis was surprised by Mrs Harper’s telephone call: he thought all babies were born in the small hours. Instead of settling down with a book he put his coat back on and went to the hospital. He was by no means confident that he would be allowed in. Relations between Tissy and himself were non-existent: she might never have been his wife. He tried to calculate when he had last had a serious conversation with her. He had called round repeatedly in the early days of their estrangement, but Tissy was nowhere to be seen. Standing in the hall with Mrs Harper, who was now completely won over to Tissy’s cause, Lewis found his assurance draining away: quite simply, he was aware that he had been phased out of their lives, which had, he supposed, reverted to what they had been when Tissy was growing up. He remembered how hard he had had to strive for their attention even in the promising early days of his courtship. He had felt then as if he were violently interposing himself between Mrs Harper and her native preoccupations, whatever they were. He had never been made privy to anything she thought or felt, although he knew that somewhere, in the obscure depths of her personality, there was a story waiting to be unlocked. He had not exactly felt this about Tissy, although he was aware that there were certain hidden areas, certain matters not explained, to which he had no
access. But she had been so docile, so obedient, that he had not thought to look beyond these qualities. He had thought her happy, or rather contented, and had not criticized the use she made of her time, although he privately thought her too passive. He wondered why she did not attempt some sort of work instead of sitting still, so still, and eating chocolates. Nothing had moved her in this direction, and eventually he had dropped the subject. Yet the last time he had submitted himself to an interview with Mrs Harper, it was to be told, with an air of finality, that Tissy was out.

‘Out? She’s never out. Out by herself? But this is unheard of. Where is she?’

‘She’s gone to her women’s group,’ said Mrs Harper. ‘A friend calls for her and brings her back.’

‘Really,’ said Lewis. ‘And what does she do there?’

‘Well, last week they got to know their bodies. This week they’re getting in touch with the pain.’

‘What pain?’ He was alarmed. ‘Is anything wrong with her? Is the baby all right?’

Mrs Harper gave him a look of scorn.

‘The pain of being a woman, Lewis. I dare say you wouldn’t understand that.’

‘Well, no,’ he said. ‘You don’t mind if I sit down, do you? This has come as a bit of a surprise. Is this what they call liberation? If so, and if I understand you correctly,’ he said weightily, speaking with enormous deliberation, ‘my wife has liberated herself right out of her marriage. What about me? What about my pain?’