Imaginative Experience (15 page)

In this cavalier frame of mind Sylvester arrived to stay with Marvin and Elvira Bratt, cheerful and looking forward to some well-earned pleasure and partially pickled in Scotch.

M
EETING JULIA IN PATEL’S
Corner Shop, Janet asked, ‘Is that your dog?’

Julia said, ‘M-m-m.’ Then, since the girl appeared friendly, she said, ‘M-m-m,’ again, remembering that the girl consorted with the Eddisons who had been disagreeable to Joyful, tried to kick him.

‘A letter!’ Mr Patel called from his counter. ‘For you, Mrs Piper, from the US of A.’ He extended his white-shirted arm, a letter pincered between delicate brown fingers.

Julia took the letter. ‘Thank you, Mr Patel. Shall I save the stamp for your collection?’

‘Please.’ Mr Patel’s smile was radiant. ‘Yes.’

‘Fancy having a letter addressed to you here,’ exclaimed Janet.

‘There is no end to the marvels and resources of Patel’s Corner Shop,’ said Julia, and exchanged a complicit glance with its owner.

Janet followed her out of the shop. ‘So it
is
your dog,’ she said, noting the activity of Joyful’s tail; he had been waiting outside.

Julia said, ‘You could say that.’

‘What breed is he?’

‘A lurcher.’

Janet said, ‘Oh,’ and, falling in beside Julia, walked with her. ‘I am glad you have got
something,’
she said. When Julia failed to respond she said, ‘A dog is a lot easier.’

‘Than what?’ Julia bristled.

Not as stupid as she was apt to appear, Janet said, ‘I was not going to mention—no—I was looking for something clever to say about spelling backwards: you know,
D-O-G
as opposed to
G-O-D
? But now I have lost my. thread.’

Vaguely remembering that when they had last spoken she had been somewhat offensive, Julia said nothing in reply.

Made uncomfortable by her silence, Janet ventured, ‘Tell me about the Patels, apart from having children in common.’ (Should she have mentioned children, having just steered clear?) ‘What makes you like them? You obviously do. You seem friends, and it’s obvious they are fond of you. Everyone else who goes to the shop is a mere customer.’

Julia said, ‘I can talk to Mrs Patel.’

‘But she doesn’t speak English,’ Janet exclaimed.

Julia said, or Janet thought she said, ‘That’s why.’

They walked on a few paces, Janet’s heels tapping, Julia’s feet silent; then, relenting, Julia said, ‘They have tact and humour; it’s the combination.’

Janet, puzzled, said, ‘Humour?’

‘Several years ago,’ Julia said, ‘I came along the street and there, chalked on the Patel newspaper board, was:
Huge Maggi Reduction.’

‘Soups?’

‘Those, too.’

Janet burst out laughing. ‘Oh! I
see.
Witty, understated,
double entendre.
I shan’t tell Tim, he’s such a Tory.’ She added thoughtfully, ‘Such a racist.’ They had reached their front door. She said, ‘I am very glad you have a dog.’

And Julia, dimly remembering their first encounter, said, ‘And you have God up your sleeve.’ She put her key in the lock, opened the door and vanished up the stairs with Joyful.

Reaching her flat on the top floor, she opened her employer’s letter. It read:
Dear Mrs Piper, My business detains me in the States. I do not know when I will be back but please carry on. I enclose my cheque to cover your work and the hours of the gardener. Should it be insufficient please let me know on my return. Sylvester Wykes.
She was putting the envelope safe on the mantelshelf for Mr Patel’s stamp collection when the telephone started ringing; she lifted the receiver and said, ‘Hallo?’

Whoever it was was in a call box; she could hear traffic. At night when the calls came, there was silence. She relaxed. ‘Hallo?’ she said again. There was a high-pitched giggle, then a child’s voice said, ‘Mummy, Mummy,’ and, ‘Mummy, where are you?’ plangent, squeaky. Then an adult laughed.

Sweating, trembling and dizzy, Julia sat down on the divan. Joyful pressed himself against her leg. ‘Your mother, Clodagh May, holds you responsible,’ said a man’s voice, ‘and so does her friend Madge. They sit in the parlour—that’s what darling Giles called it, isn’t it?—and grieve for murdered Giles and murdered Christy. For it was murder, wasn’t it, letting him drive? Now don’t hang up on me,’ said the voice. ‘Your mother grieves,’ it went on. ‘She and Madge tend the grave. It’s a nice grave, as graves go; the magpies like it. Do you like magpies, Julia? I watch them and I watch you. Magpies are supposed to be unlucky,’ said the voice. ‘Giles and little Christy were unlucky, weren’t they?’

There was a pause while the man slotted in coins. I should ring the police, Julia thought. They have ways of catching these people. ‘You still there?’ asked the man. ‘I thought so. Do you know,’ he said conversationally, ‘she has little Christy’s toys all there waiting? Those great big toys sit in a row waiting, waiting. Bit creepy, really. Bit over the top, wouldn’t you say? But I don’t suppose it interests you really, because you are free, aren’t you? They are not coming back, darling Giles and little Christy, so you are free for your other—what shall we call them—interests? That the right word?’

Shifting sideways on the divan, the telephone cord at full stretch, Julia sat on something hard and painful. With her free hand she reached into her hip pocket and extracted it, then, putting it to her mouth, she blew with all her strength into the telephone. She was still blowing Christy’s whistle into a now silent telephone when Joyful’s terrified and lunatic barking made her desist.

T
HERE IS SOMETHING EXHILARATING
about disaster, Sylvester thought as his plane droned towards Europe. He snuffled with suppressed merriment, outright solitary laughter having earlier in the flight antagonized his neighbour, who assumed him to be drunk.

Remembering his arrival at Marvin Bratt’s grandiose establishment, Sylvester snuffled again, for he had immediately wrong-footed by being a head and a half taller than his host who, though perfectly formed, handsome and athletic, was a small man, a condition to which he drew attention by standing a step higher on the porch as they shook hands.

Aware that his height could cause irritation, Sylvester had tried to remedy the situation by moving back and down a step so that his eyes came level with his host’s which, china blue in a tanned face, glared out above a luxuriant moustache, aware of his ploy. He had erred again, Sylvester remembered, by voicing an anxiety presently in his mind and asking whether he might put a call through to England, explaining that a favourite aunt had died and that on the various stops of his dog-leg journey he had failed to get in touch with his cousin, only child of the said aunt. He had been surprised when, with un-American lack of generosity, Marvin Bratt said, ‘Sure, but make it snappy. First things first; you are here to discuss my book.’

A maid had taken charge of his bags and he followed his host into a book-lined room. ‘My library,’ Marvin said, then, pointing to a telephone on an outsize desk, added, ‘Telephone,’ and repeated, ‘Make it snappy.’ Made to feel he should apologize for his aunt’s inconvenient demise, Sylvester felt damned if he would.

There were two walls of leather-bound books in the library. A third wall was of glass, with a view across a large garden towards a distant swimming-pool circled by magnolia trees, whose glittering leaves reflected along the edges of the water. The fourth wall was plastered with life-sized photographs of what he assumed were Marvin’s wife and daughter: both blonde and both beautiful. Under these was the desk, a swivel chair and opposite the desk a deep armchair. Marvin said, ‘I’ll fix you a drink, you’d like Bourbon,’ and moved towards a drinks cabinet.

Sylvester, who disliked Bourbon, and not wanting a drink, said, ‘No, no thanks,’ and began to dial.

Ignoring him, Marvin poured drinks and said, ‘So she’s left you some dough, this aunt.’

Sylvester shook his head. The telephone was ringing in England.

‘So what’s the rush?’ Marvin brought a tumbler of Bourbon.

‘Hallo,’ said Hamish’s courteous voice. ‘I am sorry I can’t come to the phone just now, but if you’ll leave a message I will come back to you as soon as possible.’ Then it added, ‘Wait for the bleep. Quite a lot of idiots don’t.’

Sylvester said, ‘Curse it, Hamish, I have been trying to reach you ever since I heard of Calypso’s death. I am desperately sorry. I am in America, back in London soon and will try again,’ and frustratedly rang off.

‘You didn’t leave your name.’ Marvin handed him his drink. ‘Siddown.’ He indicated the armchair. ‘Your aunt,’ he said, ‘can’t run away. Can we now get down to business?’

‘Aunt by marriage,’ Sylvester muttered and, ‘Thanks, but I drank on the plane.’ Sinking into the depths of the armchair he balanced the glass on its arm and stared up at row upon row of law books.

Marvin said, ‘Why should that stop you?’ and sat in the chair behind the desk.

Rearranging his thoughts, for he had expected to like his host, Sylvester said, ‘I was not told you were a lawyer—all these books.’

‘My father was. I am a politician, now a
writer.
The books give tone.’ Marvin stressed the word ‘writer’. ‘Can we get on now?’

‘Please.’ (Why am I cast as supplicant? It is he who is trying to sell.) He watched Marvin open a drawer and extract a folder of typescript, place it on the desk and rest his hands on it. He looked happier now that Sylvester was on a lower level. ‘I was expecting,’ Marvin said, ‘that your partner John would come over.’

Sylvester said, ‘A child has a birthday, it’s nearly Christmas and I am here,’ (and will have to do) and though unwilling to kowtow, for decency’s sake he added, ‘and I am of course extremely interested in your book.’ (Some day, who knows, he thought, I might find myself pleading for interest in
Wellington’s Valet.)

Marvin Bratt said, ‘I sure hope you are.’ When Sylvester said no more he said, ‘OK, I shall give you a synopsis, chapter by chapter. You can read it later tonight.’

Sylvester said, ‘Certainly.’ Sunk below Marvin he had a good view of the moustache, which curtained a tight mouth above a cleft chin. Above the mouth were arranged an arrogant nose, the blue eyes and a bristly head of fair hair. ‘That sounds an excellent plan.’

Marvin gulped Bourbon. ‘You ain’t drinking.’

‘I drank on the plane.’

‘So?’

‘So I’ll take my time.’

Marvin said, ‘OK, OK.’ Then, dropping his voice, he said, ‘This book is dynamite.’

And Sylvester said, I am waiting.’

For a politician Marvin Bratt had a monotonous voice; Sylvester’s thoughts strayed back to Calypso’s death. He should have accepted her invitation, at least rung her up before leaving for America. He jerked back and concentrated.

Marvin Bratt’s interpretation of and attitude to the Holocaust of the Native Indian tribes of America was, to say the least, breathtaking. If he was not mishearing, Marvin Bratt approved of the Holocaust, did not think it had been sufficiently thorough and advocated more on similar lines in a campaign which would include Blacks and Hispanics. In fact he planned the elimination from the United States of all peoples who were not white-skinned.

Interrupting, he had asked, ‘Jews?’

‘Jews in the States are white, right? What we are after is a United States of America which is
white.
Now, where was I? I lost the thread.’

‘What about Martin Luther King?’

‘A hiccough.’

‘Ah.’

‘You going to listen?’

‘Carry on, please.’ The hand which held the unwanted Bourbon had begun to sweat; his shirt stuck to the small of his back. He got up and perambulated the room. ‘Don’t mind me, I think better on the move.’ His throat was dry and without thinking he had sipped the Bourbon. Who was it disliked this stuff as much as he did? Interfering old, well-meaning old Rebecca, retailer of bad news, last seen carping about rugs. (That reminds me, I must collect those Kelims from the cleaners. Could do it on my way in from Heathrow.) Riding the waves of his inspiration Marvin was intoning like a southern preacher, smacking his hand on the manuscript as he made a point. The campaign to purify the nation would take fifty years. No need to rush things, but be thorough.

With his back to Marvin, Sylvester tipped the contents of his glass along the spines of a row of jurisprudence. ‘Who carries out this campaign, this policy?’ he queried.

‘We have a nucleus.’

Sylvester returned to his chair. Should this book be suppressed? Suppression was counter-productive. Could it be published with an introduction? With the right introduction, could the poison in the boil be lanced? At all costs this book must be saved from Narrowlane and Jinks who, with their ultra-right views, would produce it intact. Marvin Bratt had finished the synopsis. ‘Well?’

‘As you say: dynamite.’

Marvin Bratt looked pleased.

Searching for words, looking past Marvin’s head at the collection of photographs, focusing, he saw that behind the portraits of the blonde women was a vast enlargement, a group photograph. A flock of sheep? Looking closer, they turned out to be tightly packed figures, Ku Klux Klan. ‘Oh,’ he said, choking with nervous laughter. ‘I thought it was a flock of sheep.’

‘Sheep?’ Marvin was perplexed.

‘Behind your wife and daughter.’

‘Those ain’t sheep.’ Marvin rose from his chair.

‘Oh no! I see. Your nucleus. Ah.’

‘What’s funny?’

Unable to take his eyes off the photograph—one hooded figure was much shorter than the others—unable too to choke back his laughter (he had laughed from nerves as children do when an old person falls), Sylvester said, ‘I see I was mistaken, I thought they were sheep. Which one is you?’

Marvin Bratt had not deigned to answer except to suggest, ‘You need new glasses?’

And Sylvester, unable to restrain himself, had said, ‘But to the casual eye, you must admit, you must see the connection.’ And then, disgusted and a little frightened by what he had heard, yet craving for the whole he had back-pedalled and excused himself. ‘Forgive me, I am tired and not making sense. May I read the book alone, go through it thoroughly?’ Adding for good measure, for if it had been his work, even
Wellington’s Valet,
and Marvin had laughed as he had, he would have snatched back his
oeuvre
and put it under lock and key, ‘It is obviously an important book.’