Notwithstanding (22 page)

She scowls at him sweetly. ‘I’m not starting. I’d feel stupid. Anyway, it was your idea.’

Alan pauses, and sighs. ‘I wish it was snowing instead of raining, and I was tobogganing down the seventeenth hole on the golf course, the one that’s almost vertical, with the snow hissing under the runners, and I’m steering by sticking my welly into the snow, and my cheeks are so cold that they ache above the bone, and there’s all the excitement of wondering if I can avoid the oak tree, and then I crash into the ditch on purpose, and just lie there spread-eagled, and one of my sisters comes up and drops a great big armful of snow on top of my head. You feel so happy.’ He sips at his tea, affected by his own vision. ‘But what really happens is that suddenly you’re just terribly cold and wet, and your mittens are so soaked that your fingers freeze, and you wish you’d never come out. Have you noticed how snow smells when it’s clogged up into ice on your mittens?’

Sylvie is struck unaccountably with gloom. ‘Do you ever get that feeling that you wish you were someone else?’

Alan looks at her sitting with her chin in her hands, and answers, ‘All the time.’

‘Me too,’ she says. ‘What about you, John?’ and John tells them, ‘I don’t want to be no one else. I just want something to happen. I don’t want to be a tree no more.’ He catches their puzzled expressions, and explains. ‘You take a sapling. It’s the first autumn, and the tree goes, “Blimey, that’s interesting, all me leaves’ve dropped off.” And then it’s spring, and the tree goes, “Well, stone me, all me leaves is comin’ back.” And then he gets his first bird’s nest, and he goes, “Well, in’t that a pleasure, to be so useful?” But then it’s fifty years later, and it’s all the same. He loses his leaves, and he thinks, “Oh, that again,” and then the leaves come back, and he goes, “Surprise, surprise, I don’t think,” and then he’s got a dozen bloody birds’ nests, and he goes, “The little sods.” Well … I’ve got like that. Over and over and over and over and over and over, same thing each day as I did last year on the same day. Every Thursday, I get home and the missus has done a cheese pie, and she says, “Cheese pie all right, love?” and I say, “Lovely,” and every Tuesday it’s macaroni, and every Sunday the daughter rings up and says, “’Ello, Dad, how are you?” and I say, “Not so bad. How’s yourself?” and I just feel like I want to
jump
off a high place into a lake, and feel that cold water cleaning out the dust. I got dust where my brain is. I got dust in my eyes. I got dust in my mouth. Just dust everywhere, an’ I’m getting old, I know I am, and I look back and think, “What? What? What?” And I think, “What happened, and why wasn’t you looking? You’re going to your grave, John, and you might as well not ever have lived.” You know what? I reckon I chewed on life, and never tasted it at all.’

Alan is speechless; he has never heard John, or anyone older than himself, come to that, acknowledging their own despair. Sylvie is stirred, she has tears in her eyes, and she protests, ‘Oh John. Why don’t you look at these gardens? How many other people have kept one place so beautiful for so long?’ She comes over and hugs him, kissing him on the cheek. He is touched but embarrassed, and he pats her on the upper arm. ‘You’re a sweet girl, Sylvie,’ he says. ‘You brighten things up. Do me a favour. Stay sweet. When I’m dead I want to lie in my grave and think about you being sweet, and wishing I’d been young at the same time as you.’

Sylvie pulls a disavowing face. ‘I don’t want to be sweet. I want to be fierce.’ She raises her two hands like forepaws, and growls.

John laughs. ‘You couldn’t help it if you tried. You’re sweet, and that’s that. Always were.’ John tips
the
dregs of his tea into a pot of cyclamen, and says suddenly, with impatience in his tone, ‘I’ll tell you what I really wish. I wish you two would get a move on and go out and do something.’ He looks up, pleased by their confounded expressions. He says to Sylvie, ‘He’s been meaning to ask you out.’

Alan exclaims, ‘I haven’t. I mean –’ and John interrupts, still addressing the girl. ‘He watches for you when you ride past, and he says, “Shall I go to the stable and barrow the manure?” and he hangs about doing it slowly, in case you turn up. I’ve seen.’

‘You’re an old sod,’ moans Alan, hiding his face in his hands.

‘Is it true then?’ demands Sylvie, thrilled by this turn of events, but also alarmed.

‘Course it is,’ confirms John, with an upward motion of his arm.

‘The rain’s stopping,’ says Alan, his face still hidden in his hands.

‘Don’t go changing the subject,’ says John. ‘It’s true, what I said, it’s true, isn’t it?’

‘Yes, it’s true,’ admits Alan, his ears reddening even more. ‘It is true. I’m sorry.’

‘Sorry?’ repeats Sylvie, thinking that this is a peculiar choice of word, but John turns his eye on her. ‘As for you, little miss, you’re just as bad. You could’ve run for the stable, ’stead of runnin’ in here. In fact I saw you running over here from the stable,
and
you got wet when you needn’t. In my opinion, and if you want my advice, you two should get something sorted out.’ He turns and puts his hand to the doorknob. ‘I’m going out. Got to see what the rain’s done. Come on, puss, idle cat never caught quick mouse,’ and John heaves the door open, sploshing out into the wet world, followed hesitantly by the cat. ‘See you, George,’ he calls.

Sylvie and Alan are shamefaced; they are both nervous. There is a sense in which their situation was more comfortable when each was just a reverie for the other. Now they are going to have to begin the awkward process of becoming flesh and spirit. Alan looks up at her briefly, and she smiles a little encouragement. She feels her mouth become somewhat dry, and her heart is like a moth. ‘What do you normally do on a first date?’ he asks.

Sylvie shrugs. ‘Flicks, I suppose.’

‘Saturday?’

Sylvie remembers her mother’s advice about not making it too easy, and replies, ‘Friday.’

‘What shall we see?’ asks Alan, caught between a man’s duty to be decisive, and a man’s duty to defer to a woman’s desires.

‘Let’s look in the paper,’ says Sylvie, who has more common sense than he does. She stands up and places her mug on the potting bench. ‘Listen,’ she says, ‘I’ll be back in a mo. I want to go and give John a big hug.’

‘Why?’ asks Alan, genuinely mystified, and also, much to his own surprise, a fraction jealous.

‘Because,’ calls Sylvie over her shoulder as she strides away.

Alan blows air through his lips to make them flap together, and then distorts them into a shape that reflects his trepidation. ‘Well, George,’ he says, collecting the mugs together, and addressing the impassive and discreet spider, ‘I suppose I ought to be thrilled, but, between you and me, I’m bloody terrified. I’m going to make a mess, I know I am.’ He pauses for reflection, and continues. ‘It’ll be the usual disaster. Mum won’t lend me the car, I’ll be late even though I started early, because I’ll get stuck behind a tractor on Vann Lane, and I’ll be all in a sweat, and I’ll have spilt the aftershave so I pong like a hyacinth, and I’ll have forgotten to get any money out of the bank. No, the cash machine’ll pack up and swallow my card, so I’ll have to borrow the money from Sylvie and promise to pay it back, and the film’ll be bloody awful, and then afterwards I’ll spill red wine all over the tablecloth and Sylvie’s white jeans, and then I’ll drink too much, and when I drop her off I’ll try to kiss her and she’ll get angry, or else I won’t try to kiss her when she’d hoped that I would, and I’ll go home all miserable, and then I won’t be able to face her when I come into work, and she’ll tell John and all the stable girls what happened.’

Outside the rain resumes, and Alan is comforted by its tattoo upon the tarred felt of the roof. He hears John returning, and quickly confides to George, ‘No, I’m not. I’m not going to mess it up, I’m really not.’ A thought occurs to him. ‘I don’t suppose that John and Sylvie would let me.’

The door scrapes as John comes in. He removes his crumpled hat and shakes the drops of water to the floor. ‘Still here?’ he asks rhetorically.

Alan is moved to say something, he is not even sure what it is until it emerges from his mouth. ‘John, before Sylvie gets back, I just want to say … even though it’s a while before I go … I want to say it’s been a pleasure … the gardens … working here with you … all that. I’ll be sorry to go to university. Thanks for everything.’

John looks at him for a long moment, and sighs. ‘I’ve worked here all my life,’ he says at last, ‘this is all it’s ever been.’ John feels resentful, he wants to say that for Alan this has been merely a picturesque adventure among the peasants, but he does not know exactly how to say it, and in any case he knows that it is only half the truth. The truth is that they have come to be fond of each other, and have learned mutual respect. John says, ‘I suppose you’ll be needing a job in the holidays. Come back any time.’

Alan smiles and offers John his hand, as if sealing a deal. ‘Just try and keep me away,’ he says, and John
feels
a moment of vindication that moves him, but which he cannot entirely explain. ‘Let’s bring in the tomato plants,’ he says, ‘I’ve got a trick to show you that Harold showed me afore his marbles rolled away. What you do is, you bring ’em in, the whole plants, and strip the leaves, and you tie ’em together and hang ’em with the roots upwards, right? And then the ones that are green just carry on ripening, and now and then you chuck out the ones that’ve gone off. And that way you get your red tomatoes ’til November, and you don’t have your missus making bloody green-tomato chutney and putting it in your sarnies every morning.’

The two men walk away together, finding their intimacy, as Britons do, not in words, but in the common labour of their hands.

THE AUSPICIOUS MEETING OF THE FIRST MEMBER OF THE FAMOUS NOTWITHSTANDING WIND QUARTET WITH THE FOURTH

NOW THAT THE
children were all at the tiny school on the side of the hill near the turning to the church, Jenny Farhoumand began to search for a part-time job. She was in Palmer’s music shop in Godalming, looking through the tray of oboe reeds for the stiffer ones, when, quite out of the blue, she was inspired to ask one of the two old ladies who ran it whether or not they needed any help in the mornings.

As it happened they did, and Jenny immediately began to look forward to happy hours browsing through all the sheet music, and teaching herself how to play some of the instruments that were hanging off the walls.

It didn’t work out quite like that, however. She had not reckoned with Record Corner being just nearby, up near Mr Garland the dentist, and she spent all her wages every Wednesday in the classical section.
In
addition, the shop was really very busy, mostly with young people trying out the guitars. Barnes & Mullins were supplying some surprisingly good cheap ones from Spain, and her heart was constantly in her mouth as the youngsters took them down, knocked them against chairs and then strummed rather too aggressively.

They had a standardised repertoire, it seemed, and she quickly learned to recognise the tunes. They all knew the first few bars of something called ‘Stairway to Heaven’, they all knew a song called ‘The Streets of London’, another one called ‘The Last Thing on my Mind’, and another one called ‘Suzanne’. Those who were reasonable players all knew a tune called ‘Anji’, which could be played in lots of different ways while always sounding the same, and there was another called ‘Anonymous Spanish Romance’. Everybody could play the first part in E minor, but then they ground to a halt as soon as it went into E major. She grew to expect it, and would inwardly wince as the E major part drew nearer. Still, people ordered copies by the hundred. The youngsters were inclined to buy little things, which were really not much use, such as castanets, because that was all they could afford. They bought the cheapest guitar strings, and then had to come back for more when they broke shortly afterwards.

One morning Jenny was in the shop, shaking her
head
and smiling. She had just seen the General go by, without his trousers on, accompanied by a policeman. The General was talking animatedly about going to buy a cricket ball, and the policeman was humouring him as he guided him by the arm. He was such a sweet old man, but he was losing his marbles. She reminded herself to take him a pot of marmalade.

Shortly afterwards a woman in her thirties came in with a clarinet for sale. It was a nice one, a Buffet RC, and it was in good condition. Jenny laid it out on the desk and checked that everything was working. She squinted at the pads, looked at the mouthpiece with its little tooth marks, and then put it back into its case.

‘I can’t really offer you a price,’ she said, ‘because I don’t own the shop. Can you leave it with us? Give me your phone number, and we can arrange for you to come in.’

The woman seemed flustered. ‘Oh, I was really hoping to sell it today. I do need the money, you see. It’s quite urgent.’

Jenny nodded sympathetically. ‘I’m not the buyer. I wouldn’t be allowed. I’ll ring you as soon as I know, I promise.’

As soon as the woman had gone, Jenny picked up the telephone and dialled directory enquiries. Stamped on the clarinet she had found the words ‘Property of the Inner London Education Authority’.