Chocky, Page 7

  ‘No. That’s not so, either. “Possession” meant what it said: domination. This is not. It is much more like a working arrangement…’

  ‘What on earth do you mean by that?’ Mary demanded.

  The sharpness of her voice told me that any confidence she may have had in Landis had ebbed away entirely. Landis himself appeared not to notice it. His reply was unruffled:

  ‘You will remember that when he was ill he told Chocky to shut up and go away – which, with your added persuasion she apparently did. She seems to have done the same after she had reduced him to speechless anger over the car. He rejected her. She does not dominate…

  ‘I asked him about that. He told me that when she first started to “talk” to him she would do it at any time. It might be when he was in class, or doing his homework, or at mealtimes, or, quite often at night. He didn’t like his work, or his own interests being arbitrarily interrupted; he did not like it when there were other people present – it made them look at him oddly because he could not pay attention to her and to others at the same time; and, still more, he disliked being woken up in the middle of the night with impossible questions.

  ‘So, he tells me, he simply refused to cooperate unless she would come only at times when he could give her his full attention. And that, incidentally, seems to have given them some trouble because, he said: “Chocky’s time isn’t the same sort of time as ours”, and he had to get round that by setting the kitchen timer to demonstrate the exact duration of an hour. Once they had that established, she had a scale, and they could arrange for her to come at times when he was not busy – times to suit him not her, you notice…

  ‘And notice, too, how practical this was. No element of fantasy at all. Simply a boy laying it down that his friend should visit him only at convenient times. And the friend apparently willing to accept the conditions he offered.’

  Mary was not impressed. Indeed, I was doubtful whether she listened. She said impatiently:

  ‘I don’t understand this. When the Chocky business began David and I thought it would be unwise to try to suppress it. We assumed that it would soon pass. We were wrong: it seemed to take a firmer hold. I became uneasy. One doesn’t have to be a psychologist to know the result of a fantasy gaining the same validity as reality. I agreed to David asking you to come because I thought you would suggest some course we could take which would rid Matthew of his fantasy without harming him. Instead, you seem to have spent the day encouraging him in it – and to have become infected with it yourself. I am not able to feel that this is doing much good to Matthew, or to anyone.’

  Landis looked as if he were about to make a sharp answer, but he checked the impulse.

  ‘The first requirement,’ he said, ‘is to understand the condition. In order to do that it is necessary to gain his confidence.’

  ‘This is quite obvious,’ Mary told him, ‘and I understand perfectly well that while you were with Matthew it was necessary for you to seem to accept the reality of this Chocky – we’ve been doing the same for weeks. What I do not understand is why you keep it up when Matthew is no longer here.’

  Landis asked patiently:

  ‘But, Mrs Gore, consider the questions he has been putting, and the things he has been saying. Don’t they seem to you odd – intelligently odd – but quite out of his usual key?’

  ‘Of course they do,’ she replied sharply.’ But boys read all kinds of things: one expects it. And it’s no surprise that what they pick up makes them ask questions. What is disturbing us is the way he twists all his natural curiosity into support for this Chocky fantasy. Can’t you see, I’m afraid of it becoming a permanent obsession? What I want to know is simply the best way of stopping that from happening.’

  Landis attempted once more to explain why, in his view, Chocky could not be considered as a simple fantasy, but Mary had now worked herself into a mood where she obstinately refused to accept any of his points. I wished very strongly that he had not made that ill-advised reference to ‘possession’. It seemed to me an error of judgement – of a kind one did not expect from a psychologist – and once it had been made the damage was done.

  There was nothing for me to do but sit by and watch them consolidate their opposition.

  It was a relief to all of us when Landis at last decided to give it up, and leave.

  Six

  I found the situation awkward. I could follow Landis’s reasoning – though I would be hanged if I could see where it was leading him – but I had also some sympathy for Mary’s impatience. Landis, however unseriously he may have intended it, had, for a psychiatrist, made a bad psychological error. It would have been better, in my opinion, for him not to have referred to ancient beliefs at all; particularly, he should not have used the word ‘possession’. There are fears that we would strongly assert, and honestly believe, we have outgrown which, nevertheless, still lie dormant in all of us, ready to be aroused by a careless, unexpected word used at a critical moment. All the visit seemed to have done was to add an element of irrationality to Mary’s anxiety. Moreover, as much as what he said, his unhurried, detached, analytical attitude to the problem had irritated her. Her concern was immediate. There was something wrong with Matthew, and she wanted it put right without delay. She had looked to Landis for advice on how that could best be done: what she had got was a dissertation on an interesting case, the more disquieting because of his admission that it baffled him. By the time he left she had been giving an impression of regarding him as little better than a charlatan. An unfortunate, and unfruitful occasion.

  When I got home the following evening she had an abstracted air. After we had cleared the table and packed the children off upstairs there was an atmosphere that I recognized. Some kind of prepared statement, a little uncertain of its reception, was on its way. Mary sat down, a little more upright than usual, and addressed herself to the empty grate rather than to me. With a slightly challenging manner she announced:

  ‘I went to see Dr Aycott today.’

  ‘Oh,’ I said. ‘Something wrong?’

  ‘About Matthew,’ she added.

  I looked at her.

  ‘You didn’t take Matthew to him?’

  ‘No.’ She shook her head. ‘I thought of doing that, but decided against it.’

  ‘I’m glad,’ I told her. ‘I rather think Matthew would have regarded that as a breach of confidence. It might be better if he doesn’t know.’

  ‘Yes,’ she agreed, rather definitely.

  ‘As I’ve said before,’ I remarked, ‘I’ve nothing against Aycott as a cut-stitcher and measles-spotter, but I don’t feel this kind of thing is up his street.’

  ‘You’re right. It certainly isn’t,’ Mary agreed. She went on: ‘Mind you, I didn’t really expect that it would be. I did my best to tell him how things are. He listened not very patiently, and seemed a bit piqued that I hadn’t brought Matthew himself along. I tried to explain to the old fool that I wasn’t asking for an opinion then and there; all I wanted was a recommendation to a suitable specialist.’

  ‘From which I gather that what you got was an opinion?’

  She nodded, with a wry expression.

  ‘Oh, yes indeed. All Matthew needs is plenty of exercise, a cold bath in the morning, plenty of good plain unseasoned food, lots of salads, and the window open at night,’ she told me, with some tartness.

  ‘And no specialist?’

  ‘No. No need for that. Growing is often more exacting than we realize, but a healthy life, and Nature, the great healer, will soon correct any temporary imbalances.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I said.

  There was a pause. It was Mary who broke it:

  ‘David we must help him somehow.’

  ‘Darling, I know you didn’t take to Landis, but he is quite highly thought of, you know. He wouldn’t say he’s doubtful whether Matthew really needs help if he didn’t mean it. We’re both worried, but simply because we don’t understand: we’ve really no warrant to assume tha
t because this thing is unusual it is therefore harmful. I feel quite sure that if Landis had seen cause for alarm he’d have told us so.’

  ‘I don’t suppose he felt any. Matthew isn’t his boy. He’s just an unusual, rather puzzling case: quite interesting now, but if he were to become normal again he’d no longer be interesting.’

  ‘Darling, that’s a dreadful thing to imply. Besides, you know, Matthew isn’t abnormal: he’s perfectly normal, but plus something – which is quite different.’

  Mary gave me the look she keeps for hair-splitting, and some other forms of tiresomeness.

  ‘But it is different,’ I insisted. ‘There is an essential distinction…’

  She cut that short ruthlessly.

  ‘I don’t care about that,’ she said. ‘All I want is for him to be normally normal, not plus or minus anything. I just want him to be happy.’

  I decided to leave it there, for the time being. Except for his occasional bouts of frustration – and what child doesn’t have those, one way or another? – Matthew did not seem to me to be unhappy. But to say so then would have led us into an argument on the nature of happiness – a singularly inappropriate ground for battle.

  The question of what was to be done remained, however. For my part, I favoured further contact with Landis: Matthew clearly felt able to confide in him, and he was undoubtedly interested by Matthew. But, with Mary turned against Landis, such a course would be in direct opposition to her wishes – only a highly critical situation could justify taking that.… And crisis and urgency were qualities that the Chocky affair appeared to lack…

  So, for the present, as on several previous occasions, we attempted to console ourselves with recollection of the way in which Polly had suddenly expelled Piff from the family.

  In the meantime, however, I did suggest to Matthew that as Mummy did not seem to care a lot for Chocky, it might not be a bad idea to keep her rather in the background for a bit…

  We heard very little of Chocky for about a fortnight after that. Indeed, I began to have hopes that she was leaving us; not, unfortunately, by summary dismissal, which would have been satisfactorily definite, but by something more like a slow fade-out. But they were only slender hopes, and soon to be nipped.

  One evening as I was reaching for the television switch Mary stopped me. ‘Just a minute,’ she said. She got up and went across to her bureau. When she came back she was holding several sheets of paper, the largest about sixteen inches by twelve. She handed them to me without a word, and went back to her chair.

  I looked at the papers. Some of the smaller ones were pencil sketches, the larger ones were paintings in poster-colour. Rather odd paintings. The first two were landscapes, with a few figures. The scenes were undoubtedly local, and vaguely familiar, though I could not positively identify the viewpoints. The first thing that struck me was the figures, they were treated with an individuality of style that was quite constant: cows, and sheep, too, had a rectangular and lean look; human beings appeared as a half-way compromise between the real thing and stick-men, noticeably lacking in bulk and surprisingly angular. But despite that there was life and movement in them.

  The drawing was firm and confident, the colouring somewhat sombre; it gave an impression of being much concerned with subtle shades of green. I know next to nothing of painting, but they gave me a feeling that the sureness of line, and the economy with which effects had been achieved showed considerable accomplishment.

  The next two were still-lifes: a vase of flowers, not seen as a botanist or a horticulturalist would see them, but, nevertheless, recognizably roses; and a bowl of red things, which, once one had made allowance for over-emphasis on the seeds, were undoubtedly strawberries.

  Following these came a view through a window. This I was able to recognize. It showed a corner of a school playground, with a number of figures there that were active, but, again, spindly.

  Then there were a couple of portraits. One of a man with a long rather severely-planed face. I – well, I cannot say I recognized it, but there was something about the hairline which seemed to imply that it was intended for myself – though to my mind my eyes do not in the least resemble traffic go-lights. The other portrait was of a woman; not Mary, nor anyone I could identify.

  After I had studied the pictures I laid them down on my knees, and looked across at Mary. She simply nodded.

  ‘You understand this kind of thing better than I do. Would you call them good?’ I asked.

  ‘I think so. They’re odd, but there’s life and movement in them, perception, a feeling of confidence.…’ She let it tail away. Then added: ‘It was accidental. I was clearing his room. They’d fallen behind the chest of drawers…’

  I looked down at the top one again, at the emaciated cattle, and the spidery farmhand who wielded a pitchfork.

  ‘Perhaps one of the children in his class – or his art-teacher…?’ I ventured.

  Mary shook her head.

  ‘Those aren’t hers. I’ve seen some of Miss Soames’ stuff: her style’s a bit on the niggly side. Besides, the last one is her – not very flattering, either.’

  I looked through the pictures once more, reconsidering them. They grew on one, once the first strangeness had worn off.

  ‘You could put them back there tomorrow, and just say nothing,’ I suggested.

  Mary smoothed her knitting, and pulled it to get the rows straight.

  ‘I could… but they’d go on worrying me. I’d rather he told us about them…’

  I looked at the second landscape, and suddenly recognized the scene, knew the exact bend in the river which gave it.

  ‘Darling,’ I said, ‘I’m afraid you won’t like it.’

  ‘I’ve not liked any of it. I didn’t like it even before that friend of yours started talking about “possession”. But I’d rather know than be left guessing. After all, it is just possible that someone did give them to him.’

  Her expression told me that she meant what she said. I did not demur further, but it was with a feeling that the whole thing was now entering upon a new phase that I agreed. I took her hand, and pressed it.

  ‘All right,’ I said. ‘He’ll scarcely be in bed yet.’ And I put my head into the hall, and called upstairs. Then I spread the pictures out on the floor.

  Matthew arrived in his dressing-gown, pink, tousle-headed, and fresh from the bath. He stopped abruptly at the sight of the pictures. Then his eyes went to Mary’s face, uneasily.

  ‘I say, Matthew,’ I said, as chattily as I could, ‘Mummy happened to come across these when she was clearing your room. They’d slipped down behind the chest of drawers.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Matthew. ‘That’s where they went.’

  ‘They’re very interesting, and we think they’re rather good. Are they yours?’

  Matthew hesitated, then:

  ‘Yes,’ he said, a little too defiantly.

  ‘What I mean is,’ I explained, ‘did you paint them?’

  This time his ‘yes’ had a defensive touch.

  ‘H’m.… They aren’t much like your usual style, are they? I should have thought you’d got higher marks for these than you usually do in Art,’ I suggested.

  Matthew shuffled a little.

  ‘These ones aren’t Art. They’re private,’ he told me.

  I looked at one of the landscapes again.

  ‘You seem to be seeing things in quite a different way,’ I remarked.

  ‘Yes,’ Matthew agreed. Hopefully he added: ‘I expect it’s something to do with growing up.’

  His eyes pleaded with me. After all, it was I who had advised him to be discreet.

  ‘It’s quite all right, Matthew. We’re only interested to know who really did do them.’

  Matthew hesitated. He darted an unhappy glance at Mary, looked down at the carpet in front of him, and traced one of the patterns there with his toe.

  ‘I did,’ he told us, but then his resolution appeared to weaken. He qualified: ‘I mean – sort of
– well, I did do them…’

  He looked so miserable and confused that I was reluctant to press him further. It was Mary who came to his rescue. She put an arm round him.

  ‘It doesn’t really matter a bit, darling. It’s just that we were so interested in them, we wanted to know.’ She reached down and picked up a painting. ‘This view. It’s very clever. I think it’s very good – but it’s rather strange. Did it really look like that to you?’

  Matthew stayed dumb for some seconds, then half-blurting he told her.

  ‘I did do them, Mummy, really I did. Why they look sort of funny is because that’s how Chocky sees things.’

  He turned an anxious look on her, but Mary’s face showed only interest.

  ‘Tell us about it, darling,’ she encouraged him.

  Matthew looked relieved. He sighed.

  ‘It happened one day after Art,’ he explained. ‘I don’t seem to be much good at Art,’ he added, regretfully. ‘Miss Soames said what I had done was hopeless. And Chocky thought it was pretty bad, too. So I said I did try, but it never seemed to come out at all right, and Chocky said that was because I didn’t look at things properly. So I said I didn’t see where “properly” came into it; you either see things, or you don’t. And she said no, it wasn’t like that because you can look at things without seeing them, if you don’t do it properly. And we argued a bit about that because it didn’t seem sense.

  ‘So in the end she said what about trying an experiment – me doing the drawing, and her doing the seeing? I didn’t see how that could work, but she said she thought it was worth trying. So we did.

  ‘It didn’t come off the first few times because I couldn’t think of nothing. The first time you try it’s awfully hard to think of nothing. You sort of keep on thinking of not thinking of anything, but that isn’t the same at all, so it doesn’t work. But that’s what Chocky said: just sit and hold a pencil and think of nothing. I got pretty fed up with trying, but she kept on wanting to have another go at it. And, well, about the fourth time we tried I half-managed it for a minute or two. After that it got easier, and then when we’d practised a bit more it got quite easy. So now I’ve only got to sit down with the paints and – well, sort of switch-off me, and the picture comes – only the way it comes is the way Chocky sees it, not the way I do.’