Jackson's Dilemma (19 page)

As a student at Edinburgh University Tuan had developed the general ‘interest in religion’. As an academic in London he was encouraged by his open-minded college to teach and lecture on ‘history of religion’. Tuan wandered about London sampling various forms of worship. He came to certain conclusions. Later, his observant colleagues accused him of ‘taking it all too seriously’, also ‘enjoying it all too much’. They accused him of ‘frivolity’ which was far from being true. He was simply discovering mysticism. This discovery did not, he felt, detach him in any way from what he could now see as virtue and goodness, which he had perceived in his parents. He wrote home to them, often amusingly, about the other ‘dons’, about his digs, about the picture galleries, about a jacket he had bought in a sale; but he was unable, he felt as yet, to explain what he was discovering about religion. In letters he frequently begged his parents to consider coming to live in London. At first this seemed a possibility; then there was a shadow, something about his father’s health. Tuan came at once, finding his father cheerful, ‘getting better’, ‘not to worry’. However he could see his mother had been crying. He stayed for several days during which his father was getting ‘much better’. He talked to the doctor. He went back to London. He rang up every day and heard his father’s cheerful voice. He returned to Edinburgh and found his father ‘well, though tired’. He spoke to his mother and to the doctor. He decided to stay for several days and rang up the college. His father said that he should ‘go back to his work’, but Tuan was now afraid. His father ‘rested in bed’. Then Tuan saw his father asleep, unconscious. Then soon after, dead. He organised the funeral. He wept, his mother wept, there were many mourners. After this Tuan stayed with his mother for many days. They sat and cried together. She refused to have any visitors. He wanted her to come and live with him in London. She did not want to, she wanted to stay on in the house where she had lived for so long. Tuan said all right, he would leave London and come and live with her. She said no, he must ‘do his work’, he could come and see her, and she might come and see him. She did not want any other people, not yet anyway. She could look after herself, after all she had been looking after Tuan! She said, ‘The doctor will help me, you know he comes every day, and if you like Annabelle can come too.’ Annabelle was her old cook, now retired. She begged Tuan to go back to his ‘ordinary work’. At last Tuan said he would go back to London, but only for half a day, to fix some things, provided the doctor came, and Annabelle stayed with her all day. She must ring up Annabelle
now.
He heard her ring Annabelle. He made sure of the doctor. He went to London, to his university, announcing his hasty retirement. He caught an afternoon train, he took a taxi to the house. He passed the gibbering doctor on the stairs and ran into her room. She seemed to be asleep. But she was dead. There were pills beside her. She had written, ‘I shall meet him again.’Her only reference to life after death. Later he found out that Annabelle had died two years ago.

 

 

 

After this time, which was before he met Uncle Tim, Tuan curtailed his duties at the college where he continued to teach once a week. He also now went regularly to Edinburgh partly concerning his father’s affairs. He spent many of his days wandering in the poorer parts of London. He thought very much about his father and his father’s intense goodness, also about his mother and her terrible act, and of the words she had left behind her. The act was noble, the words a mystery. Religion and its forms. In his wanderings, at that time, he entered many places of worship, some even very strange. Was he, he sometimes wondered, being merely what his colleagues dubbed him as ‘frivolous’? He was searching, but so were countless other people, and his searching often seemed pointless nor could he find anyone with whom to discuss it. He also visited numerous varieties of religious bookshops, in the Charing Cross Road and then in even more secretive and exotic areas, and bought and read a great many books, and continued to enter a great variety of places of worship. In due course he began to conclude that true religion
must
be a form of mysticism.

He had become more profoundly interested in Judaism and decided that to understand
anything
he himself must write a book. He hastened to begin the book, but then paused. He had taken for his subject the great Spanish Jewish mystic Maimonides; soon however he found himself, in the next century, discovering Eckhart and with him the various lights of the English mystics - and why not run quickly on to Spinoza - religious values, mystical values? He stopped writing his book and decided that he must, and for a long time,
read
and
think.
These problems he confided to no one. He found himself continually returning to the relation, the difference between Religion and Mysticism. Could there be Religion without Mysticism, Mysticism without Religion? Between these two where does Good lie - where does Love? Where is the Ultimate, and what is it? Where is Knowledge? Tuan was in love with Mysticism. Could this be bad? Where do sin and evil lie - indeed where can they not lie? It was about this time that Tuan met Uncle Tim. Amid these amazing seekings and ever opening vistas there was yet another darkness in Tuan’s life which had been revealed to him and which he had not revealed to anyone else.

 

 

 

Tuan was at work as usual in the ‘small room’, which he did not call his ‘study’, in his ground floor flat in Chelsea. It was evening. The flat consisted of three bedrooms, the small room, a little dining room, a large drawing room, the hall, the kitchen, the bathroom and a very small garden. Almost all the walls were covered with books. Tuan rarely had visitors. He had some college friends, but many of these had gone away. He had in fact found in London no really close friends until he had met Uncle Tim. Tuan had seen and known Uncle Tim instantly. Their meeting in the train was mutual. It was, for Tuan, a revelation, a meeting with a kindred soul. Not that Tim could help him much in his studies, except that they could converse about Indian mystics. It was a matter of, not exactly a master, but a wise fellow soul or brother. The affection they had for each other was mutual, but while it was often boisterously conveyed by Tim, it was secretly stored away by Tuan - so that the others did not really notice it. Tuan was of course also fond of Benet, to whom he turned more after Tim’s death. That loss had been terrible; Tuan held it quietly to his heart. He was also of course fond of some of Tim‘s, and Benet’s, friends, such as Owen, Edward, Mildred and of course ‘the girls’. Tim and Owen used sometimes to tease him about ‘the girls’, meaning Marian and Rosalind, and also about ‘girls’ in general. Owen especially used to enjoy informing him that he must know by now that ‘girls’ were just ‘not the thing!’. Tuan used to smile silently at this. In fact he had had no intercourse with either sex nor did he wish for any. He was tall and thin, his nose, faintly hooked, was thin, and so was his rather long neck. His smooth skin was of a uniform dark goldenish colour, his dark thick hair hung down very straight. He had large very dark brown eyes, questing and timid like those of an animal. His long thin hands, also brown, were mobile, often he would cross them at his neck, then send them flittering away from him like restless captive birds. It had been suggested by some that his nickname, taken by Uncle Tim from the novel, suggested not only wary timidity but fear of some fate which was bound sooner or later to catch up with him. However there was no clear evidence for this conjecture. The dreadful disappearance of Marian, the destroyed marriage, the lack of news, had distressed him very much as it had the others.

Thinking of this, he had laid down his pen. He picked it up again, but began to realise that he was tired and losing his concentration. He got up and went into the drawing room and began to walk about. Now he became conscious of sounds in the street. He thought of going down to the river, which was quite close, but decided not to. The bell of his flat rang suddenly, a long ring. He felt annoyance, wondering what it was, almost certainly it was something tiresome. He wondered if he should ignore it. The bell rang again, longer this time. Frowning he went to the front door and opened it. A woman was standing outside. It was Marian.

 

Tuan, pulling the door wider, stepped out and caught her as she seemed about to fall into his arms. He pulled her over the threshold and quickly closed the door. She collapsed onto the floor. He knelt, then sat down beside her, gasping. He lifted up her head. Her eyes were staring, her mouth open. For a moment he thought she had fainted or was in some sort of fit. Then she seemed to look at him. He tried to pull her up, supporting her head, but she resisted, then seemed to help him, thrusting her elbows back to lift herself. She fell back again, then he felt her hand somehow finding his hand. He said breathlessly, ‘Marian, oh Marian, dear Marian—’ They were still for a moment, he now lying almost beside her on the floor. When he made another attempt to lift her, she aided him, and they reached a sitting position. He said again, ‘Marian -’ She nodded as if he had only now recognised her. He got up awkwardly, then with a little of her help, hauled her up to her feet. He put his arms around her, feeling her warmth. They moved, as if dancing. He helped her out of the hall and into the drawing room, where she sank down into an armchair. He stood before her. ‘Marian, dear dear Marian, don’t worry, don’t be afraid, I’ll look after you - oh let me get you something—’ He did not know what - food, drink, milk, alcohol - or else - He murmured softly, saying ‘oh dear, oh dear—’

Marian leaning back in the chair was now breathing deeply, holding one hand up to her throat. Her other hand, lying over the side of the chair, was holding the entangled loop of the handle of some sort of large bag. She was wearing a loose coat. He could now see her face, which he could scarcely recognise, he thought at first because of some ailment, then because of continuous tears. Her hair was tangled, unkempt and darkened as if wet, clinging to her head like seaweed. He said, ‘Dear, dear Marian, don’t be, so - ’ He couldn’t find the word. ‘Don’t grieve, you are safe - ’

His murmurings seemed to be of help to her. She sat up in the chair and began clumsily to put herself in order, untangling the bag, smoothing her hair, patting her face, adjusting the neck of her dress, visible through her coat. Then she began to take off her coat, revealing a dark red cotton dress with a white collar. He helped her, awkwardly. Standing before her he said, ‘Would you like some tea or coffee, some hot drink, or perhaps wine or something? - Something to eat?’ This clumsy programme seemed to soothe her a little. She seemed to be wondering what she wanted. She spoke in a low husky voice, ‘Yes, could you bring me a little whisky with a lot of water.’

Tuan ran to the kitchen - even as he ran all sorts of enormous problems were gathering in his head. He concentrated on the whisky, in a glass, what kind of glass, with the water separate or with, hot or cold - He was too anxious to get back to her, so afraid of her suddenly getting up and running away, he hastily made the decision, two glasses, one whisky one water, upon a tray - but he must also feed her - perhaps she was starving - he ran back.

In the brief interim Marian had opened her big bag, getting out a small mirror from a smaller bag, and found a comb which she was dragging through her hair. She asked him to pour some of the water, yes that much, into the whisky. Tuan, though not a serious drinker, felt he must have some whisky too, but could not move from his position of standing in front of her.

She said, ‘I am so sorry, Tuan — ’

He was so glad she used his name. ‘Dear dear Marian, don’t worry. I’ll help you -’

‘I don’t want to impose on you.’

‘You are not imposing, I just wish I could — ’

‘I won’t stay long.’

‘
Please
,
please
stay - do you want to - is there anyone you’d like to telephone?’

‘No, no, don’t ring anybody,
please,
you mustn’t tell anybody.’

Tuan hesitated. ‘Not even Rosalind?’

‘No, no, not
her
!
Nobody
— ’

‘You must have something to eat, you must stay here, I have a spare bedroom, I want you to stay here, you must be so terribly tired, and you must eat something now,
please
— ’

‘All right - just give me something - anything - I -’

He rushed to the kitchen and came back with some hastily buttered bread and some cheese and a slice of cake. She drank some whisky but took only one mouthful of the bread. It seemed she could hardly swallow it.

‘Marian, listen, I’ve thought of something. They are all terribly upset, they think you might be dead - ’

‘I might be, I nearly was, I ought to be, I will be — ’

‘But oughtn’t we just to let them know that you are not - just tell them - I wish you could talk to someone on the telephone, you needn’t say where you are -’

‘I have destroyed two men. I am going away - far away — ’

‘Look, I am going to ring Rosalind, I
must,
I can’t do this by myself, she loves you, she will tell no one, she will do anything for you - and I
must
ring Jackson too.’

He went to the telephone. He paused. Silence. He lifted the telephone and rang Rosalind’s number. She answered.

‘Hello.’

‘Rosalind, it’s Tuan.’

‘Oh Tuan - no news I suppose?’

‘Listen, I want you to do something - you are alone?’

‘Yes -’

‘Will you come round to my place
now, at once, and tell
nobody?’

‘Of course I will, I’ll get a taxi.’

Quickly he rang Jackson’s number, but with no success. He ran back to Marian. He had expected her to scream. But she was sitting with her eyelids drooping, her head fallen to her breast, her lips parted, covered with froth. He pulled his chair close to her and took hold of one limp hand. Still staring down, she slowly drew it away, her tears now falling as she leaned back, closing her eyes, seeming to fall asleep. He thought it wise not to speak again. She uttered an almost inaudible lamentation.