Guilty: The Lost Classic Novel, Page 3

  He was an old friend of my father’s, this Mr Spector – the only one, I heard later, to brave public opinion by openly declaring the fact at this time, in spite of his own dis-approval of pacifist ideals. He often said that what he called ‘the ‘ologies’ had nothing to do with friendship, politics and philosophy and the rest belonging to the intellect, whereas friendship came, or should come, from the heart – one’s heart always told one to stand by a friend, especially if he happened to be down on his luck, and that was all there was to it. When I was a little older and heard how my father had begged him not to endanger his career by coming to see us, and how he had replied by coming rather more often, I was filled with admiration for such selfless nobility. But, at the time of this meeting, all I knew of him was that he seldom took any notice of me, from which I assumed that he disliked children, and I kept out of his way, slightly intimidated by his dignified, stern appearance and authoritative manner.

  I wondered now what he could possibly want of me, as I scrambled down, obediently but rather reluctantly, and squeezed my skinny frame into the car, automatically taking care not to open the door beyond the very few inches it was possible to open it without touching the bank. I don’t know whether this consideration was the result of training or some inherited feeling for orderliness and respect for inanimate things. Anyhow, it was useful to me now, for I found out, years afterwards, that this door situation was the first of a long series of character tests devised by Mr Spector for gauging my tendencies and development, and that his real interest in me originated in my ability to pass it with flying colours at such a tender age.

  However, if he looked at me approvingly, I didn’t notice it. I was far from comfortable sitting beside him, being secretly worried about what would happen if we met another car coming the opposite way, as well as uneasily conscious that I was untidy and dirty, and that the scraps of leaves and twigs I’d collected upon my person showed an embarrassing tendency to transfer themselves to the upholstery. My awkward attempts to remove them resulting only in more dust being deposited there, I glanced apprehensively at my companion, who said kindly, ‘Never mind that’, smiling in a much friendlier way than I’d ever expected.

  From that moment all my worries were over, for he began talking to me so easily and naturally that we might have been equals and old acquaintances. I asked the question that was bothering me, and it was settled at once, and my mind set at rest, by his answer that the other fellow would just have to back to the nearest crossroads, which I took as quite right and proper, never doubting for one instant that every vehicle on the road would unquestioningly give way to this assured and dominant personage.

  I don’t remember what we talked about at first, only that he spoke to me without a trace of the condescension grown-ups so often displayed in their conversations or of the foolish facetiousness some appeared to consider suitable to my age. It seemed such a very long time since I’d had a friendly conversation with anyone, or that anyone had taken an interest in me and my affairs, that I was only too glad to go on talking about anything and everything under the sun. Mr Spector listened, always with the same grave attention, as if we were discussing important matters that concerned him personally, putting in an occasional question to lead me on, so that I revealed, I dare say, much more of my loneliness and bewilderment than I realized. He asked me what I’d been doing up on the bank, and I explained about the headache plant, a few wilted leaves of which I produced and held up for him to smell, so that he could get an idea of its mystic properties. From there it was an easy and natural step to the orphans and my imagined companionship with them and how much I wished it were real.

  As I sat there, enjoying myself thoroughly now, my hair stirred by the breeze our speed evoked from the stagnant air, a warm feeling of gratitude spread through me towards the man at my side, who, simply by letting me talk, had afforded me the relief I most needed. His questions never embarrassed me, for he never pressed for an answer. Nor did he burden me with comments or advice unless I asked him directly, in which case he would reply in a simple straightforward manner quite acceptable to me. I noticed that at certain moments our talk seemed to approach something dangerous or painful for which I could find no words, and I got the impression he understood these things that troubled me, but of which I couldn’t speak because it was impossible for me to explain them or fit them into the frame of the language I knew. He somehow contrived to convey to me, without actually mentioning it at all, that everything would be clear to me when I was older, and that there was nothing to worry about, which I found inexpressibly comforting. I was convinced that he understood me without the need for speech, for he always seemed aware of these obscure danger points, and before I’d had time to grow really uneasy he’d have steered the conversation to a safer topic. My confidence was won absolutely. I felt more contented than at any time since my father’s return, because this stranger, so sure of himself and of everything, so admirable, as I thought, in every respect, considered me worthy of his friendship and took an interest in my small doings, thus giving my ego a much-needed lift.

  We had driven a long way round to give me time to finish all I had to say and were returning now by a route unfamiliar to me. I was very sorry the drive was over, for I’d have liked it to last for ever, but Spector again made things easy for me by taking this particular road, the strangeness of which occupied my attention and diverted my thoughts. Like many roads in our district, it was sunk between high banks topped by hedges, which here had been allowed to grow up till they formed a roof overhead. On this dull day, it was like driving along a green tunnel, filled with a curious watery twilight, in which floating pools, threads and ripples of brighter light were continually trembling and shifting, so increasing the aquatic effect.

  Half my mind was given up to pretending that we were travelling on the ocean floor, when, suddenly and most unexpectedly, a cottage appeared in the distant circle that was the tunnel’s mouth, very minute and clear, as if seen through a giant’s green telescope. It looked so strange and remote that I didn’t recognize it at once as my home. It had to my eyes the unreal miniature air and the slightly sinister charm of a fairy-tale cottage in an enchanted wood, and even when we arrived I wasn’t exactly happy about going inside.

  Nothing ominous or fearful, however, could exist in the proximity of Mr Spector, who, as soon as we’d stopped, took my hand in a friendly grip, ostensibly to help me out of the car, but really, as I knew, to assure me that everything was as it should be at home.

  The rest of his visit followed the usual pattern, except that at one point, when both my parents happened to be in another part of the room, he gave me a slow deliberate wink; it had an extremely droll effect in his rather solemn face, so that I nearly burst out laughing. But afterwards I was very glad he’d substantiated our friendship and understanding in this way, as otherwise I certainly wouldn’t have dared to believe in it, it seemed so excessively improbable.

  We all went to see him off when the time came, and I remember that, while saying goodbye to my father and mother, he put his hand for a moment on my shoulder and said to them over my head, ‘This young man of yours looks a bit peaky to me, as if he could do with a good blow of sea air.’ Then he climbed into the low-slung car and went beetling off. I watched the bright metal hub of each wheel turning faster and faster, till I could distinguish the individual turns no longer. He waved once and was gone.

  During the next few days he was much in my thoughts; I hoped he would come and see us again soon and that he would take me out for another drive so that we could resume our talk. Then one evening my mother told me that the orphans were being taken to the seaside for a month and that I was to go with them, and after that I could think of nothing else.

  I never found out whether Mr Spector actually arranged this himself or whether the hint he’d given my parents had been enough, but, in any case, he was responsible for one of the happiest holidays I’ve ever had.

  So much happened to me d
uring that month at the seaside, each day was so full of exciting and memorable events, that the individual days seemed a week long yet the month itself passed in a flash. The day of departure, at first so astronomically remote as to be unthinkable, suddenly took a great leap forward and was right upon us. It seemed to me I’d no sooner arrived and begun making friends with the orphans (who proved unexpectedly easy to know now that it wasn’t term time), and with them becoming acquainted with the fascination of sands, cliffs, rocks, concert parties, shrimping, sailing, swimming and a hundred and one other attractions, than I was back again at the station, reluctantly boarding the train that was to take us away from all these wonders, clutching a long wet ribbon of seaweed, and grimly resisting all adult efforts, both forcible and persuasive, to take it away from me.

  Then, finally, it was evening, I was home again, the remains of the seaweed, much the worse for wear, still wound around my wrist. And my mother’s slight figure, like a shadow itself, was gliding to meet me out of the thick shadows in our little hall. I kissed her and rushed to hang up my precious trophy at once, waving the battered, dank strand I had persistently dragged in and out of trains and taxis, lavatories, waiting-rooms, dining-cars, till now, like regimental colours tattered in many campaigns, it came home at last to rest in the place of honour. ‘It’s a barometer, you know; you feel it, and if it feels wet it’s going to rain.’ Over the years, I can still hear my voice, shocking in that silence where no voices were ever raised, loud, triumphant, insistent with youth and with my new independence.

  I’d hardly thought of my home all the time I had been away. And I remember how I glanced around me now with a sort of wonder, as the feeling of it came back, and I saw that everything was just the same as it had been before: the hushed heavy silence and the shadows that seemed more real than the figures which they surrounded. Only I wasn’t the same; I was tremendously, splendidly different. I’d come back as a conqueror, confident in myself and my health and vitality and in my ability to get on by myself in the real world among real people. Nevertheless I was struck by something implacably hostile in this remembered atmosphere, as the stubborn intractability of things and circumstances made itself felt, opposing my childish will. But I refused to be influenced by it; I was the victor returning triumphant, and would not be discouraged or silenced. Loudly I went on recounting my adventures and exploits and all that I had been doing.

  Though not boisterous nor boastful by nature, I must have seemed so on this occasion, so determined was I to assert myself against this vague something in the air I felt to be inimical to me. My shadowy mother seemed to become more wraith-like under the bombardment of my ceaseless voice and relentless activity, as I rushed from room to room, opening and shutting doors, upstairs, downstairs, bringing out of my suitcase treasures I’d collected, all in a flood of talk, reminiscences, as if by myself alone I could fill the cottage with all the noise and liveliness the orphans would have made together, and so beat the silence and the shadows on their own ground.

  The only room I didn’t go into was my father’s study, which I avoided purely from instinct and force of habit, without a thought for its occupant. It was only when I was completely breathless, and my spring of words had temporarily dried up, that it even occurred to me to ask how he was. For the first time I really looked at my mother, seeing the collection of miscellaneous garments draped over her arm. Because my own association with packing was so fresh in my mind, I knew at once what she had been doing when interrupted by my arrival, even before she said, ‘You’ve come back just in time to say goodbye to your father. He’s going away tomorrow – abroad.’

  Her words dispersed a nameless apprehension that the thought of packing aroused; this was news I was not only relieved but delighted to hear. Remembering how happy I’d been while the two of us were alone, I imagined that history would repeat itself and I be restored to the importance I’d then enjoyed as sole object of her interest and affection. And, my expansive warmth overflowing, I was ready to love my father because he was leaving us in the morning. But the next moment I was almost hating him for the same reason, sensing that my mother was more preoccupied than usual on his account. This was my hour. I was the returning hero. He had no right to steal my place as the central figure. ‘Where’s he going? Why? Is it a long way off?’ I insistently asked, not interested, just trying to fix her attention, for I saw that her thoughts had already left me.

  All of a sudden she seemed to reach a decision in her own mind, replying most unexpectedly, ‘You’d better ask him yourself.’ I stared incredulously, as hitherto all contact between us had been discouraged. ‘Yes, go and talk to him now while I get the supper – tell him I sent you.’ She spoke with a decisiveness she hadn’t displayed for a very long time. Then, smiling, went out of the room.

  Knowing she wouldn’t want me in the kitchen, I was left in perplexity, faced with the alternatives of my father’s company and that of the silence and shadows. The silence became obtrusive now that I was alone; it seemed to be rising around me in a slow tide, steadily submerging all my bustle and noise. A clock began to strike in another room. I listened, counting the strokes, and when they were over the silence seemed deeper, more formidable. Old associations were starting to undermine my self-confidence, so I hastily reminded myself that I’d been away from home on my own and managed quite well. I was now independent; I wasn’t afraid of anything or anyone, I informed the study door as I opened it, and said aloud, ‘Mother sent me and told me to tell you so.’

  I’d so seldom been in this room that I glanced around it now with a slightly nervous curiosity, half relieved, half disappointed to note its already partly dismantled air – books gone from the shelves, the pigeonholes of the desk empty, torn paper piled in the grate – more pathetic than gruesome and quite devoid of the sinister secrets I’d been expecting. My father, too, was almost disappointingly unalarming, a quiet, grave, unassuming man, looking up at me in surprise from the open case in which he was packing the last of his papers.

  If, unbeknown to me, any ogrish dustbin-stamping image still haunted the dark recesses of my memory, it should have been exorcized now, as, in one of those odd isolated flashes of detached observation that children sometimes have, I saw how much older and wearier he was looking than when he’d come home to us from the war, far more worn and depleted by his fearful interior war of principles versus affection, of which I, of course, could know nothing. His ideals now triumphant, he was abandoning all he loved; the terrible battle was won. But he didn’t look like a man who had won any sort of a battle; he only looked tired and lonely – very tired, and very lonely.

  These were the impressions I recorded, camera-like, on the spot without understanding, and stored away to be reexamined at a much later date, when I was of an age to grasp their implications. At the time, I was only a resentful child, understanding nothing, absorbed in my own affairs, seeing him as the thief who had stolen first my mother and the happiness of my home and now my big moment.

  When he came to me and took my hand, I, determined to make no concessions, stiffened against him without a word. He stooped to peer into my face, trying to see what was wrong, wondering, no doubt, why I stood there so woodenly, stubbornly silent. Then, puzzled, but asking no questions, he led me to the desk, where he sat down, producing some brightly coloured travel folders and began to tell me about his voyage and the countries he was going to visit, in such a gentle, friendly, quiet way that I melted slightly in spite of myself and asked why he was going away when he hadn’t been back with us long.

  He told me he was going to look for a country where there was peace, where people lived together in friend liness and goodwill, and the air wasn’t poisoned, as it was here, by hatred and the bitterness of old wars or the fear of new ones. Somewhere on earth there must be a place where people were still sane and healthy and loved life, not death, and he was going to find it. Then he’d come back for us, and we’d all live there happily ever after.

  He didn’t,
of course, use those exact words; I can’t reproduce his language. I only know it all had the sound of a fairy-tale to me, so that I never thought of it as a reality, as a thing that really might happen. It didn’t sound like a real project, and I remember thinking this promised land of his was just a device he employed (as I used my imaginary worlds) to escape the pains and disappointments of real life. It gave me a fellow feeling with him to know we shared these insubstantial resources, but it also seemed pitiable, almost shameful, that a grownup person should be forced to descend to such strategems. When he said something unintelligible to me about peace being his home, I got impatient, reminding him that our country was at peace now, so there was no need for him to search for it in far-off foreign places. But this he wouldn’t admit, shaking his head, saying, ‘No, not real peace; and not for long, even such as it is. There won’t be any more real peace – not here – not in our time.’

  My interruption may have recalled him to the need for making himself comprehensible to a small boy, for he talked no more about peace and went on to tell me I’d have to be the man of the house while he was away and take care of my mother but that if anything went wrong I could always call upon Mr Spector, who had promised to run down occasionally to keep an eye on us both.

  Mr Spector had almost disappeared from my memory, eclipsed by newer faces and by all that had been happening to me since I saw him, so I really don’t know why I should have expressed such pleasure at the prospect of having him as a sort of father-substitute, unless, as I’ve sometimes thought, children have an instinctive knack of tormenting their elders without knowing how or why, and I was trying to let my poor father see how unfavourably he compared with his friend. I wasn’t entirely innocent or ignorant of the hurting effect of my attitude, for I remember feeling slightly confused and turning aside to hide my embarrassment by inspecting the travel pictures, in one of which a boy of about my size was shown surf-riding, which interested me extremely, because I’d seen surf-riding, though of a very inferior kind, on my holiday. This was the real thing, I thought, gazing in awe at the huge breakers, imagining that I was that small figure, riding so splendidly on the backs of the surging swells, feeling the double thrill of speed and of dominion over their power. When my father asked if I’d like to go there with him and learn how to ride the waves, the word ‘Yes’ was actually on my lips when I suddenly checked it. Suddenly I was ashamed of being won over so easily, as if I’d foolishly let him trick me out of my resentment, like a baby bribed with a sweet, and I said ‘No’ almost roughly, pushing the picture away with an aggressive movement so that it fell on the floor.