The Book and the Brotherhood (21 page)

‘Rose Curtland is nice,’ Lily admitted. ‘She can’t help being a bit posh. She’s
timid
though, and that exasperates me, I can’t stand timid women. The best of the bunch is little Tamar.’

‘Tamar?’ said Gulliver surprised. He had not heard Lily mention Tamar before.

‘Yes,’ said Lily. She added, ‘She was kind to me once.’ Tamar had once made a point of talking to Lily and staying with her at a party, at the Cambuses house in the old days, where Lily was getting left out. Lily never forgot this.

Gull was touched. ‘She’s a good kid, but not exactly precocious, she’s a modest violet.’

‘Thank heavens for a girl who can be like that these days! She’s pure, she’s innocent, she’s sweet, she’s unspoilt, she’s
fresh, she’s everything that I’m not. I’m shop-soiled, I guess I was born shop-soiled. I adore that child.’

Gulliver was surprised by this little outburst. Perhaps he had underestimated Tamar, perhaps he ought to notice her more? But of course Lily’s emotion was really concerned with herself and not with young Tamar.

‘She’ll be someone,’ said Lily, ‘the others are soft, they live in the past, in a sort of Oxford dream world. Tamar was right to get out of that, she’s brave, she’s a survivor type. You’ve got to be hard to understand what’s happening today, let alone
do
anything about it.’

‘Jean’s hard,’ said Gulliver, ‘she’s very fond of Tamar too, and Tamar had quite a crush on her.’

‘Really?’ Lily wondered for a moment whether she could somehow get Jean back, perhaps with Tamar’s help. But it was no good. ‘I’m out of it,’ she said. ‘I can’t get on with men, and I can’t get on with women either.’

‘You get on with me.’

‘Oh,
you
–!’

‘What do you mean, oh me?’

‘Actually the idea that men and women are different is put about by men and by slave women. That Freud thing, penis-envy, means nothing but Freud feels superior. We used-up liberated women are best placed to see and know all. I don’t know why I say “we”. I’m the only one who sees and knows all.’

‘That’s because you’re a witch,’ said Gull. ‘I know you met Jean at that yoga class where you stood on your head, but where did you meet Crimond?’

‘Crimond, Crimond, he’s a bore, why do we have to talk about him all the time?’

‘How was it you came to that dance with him?’ Gull had been wanting to ask this question for some time, but only now felt bold enough.

‘Oh pure accident, some other girl dropped out at the last moment, that was nothing. I don’t know him all that well really – but then who does.’

Lily was secretive about Crimond, not because anything
had ‘happened’, there was nothing thrilling to hide, and, though she did not mind if people suspected otherwise, it was true that she did not know him at all well. What was precious to her, and to be concealed, was simply the uneventful, but to her deeply significant, history of her thoughts and feelings about this man. Lily first heard of Crimond in the days when he was a famous extremist and idol of the young, an influential friend of well-known left-wing MP’s, addressing crowded meetings and appearing on television. Then, at a time soon after Jean’s return to Duncan and just before Lily’s marriage she got to know Jean at the yoga class. Of course Jean never mentioned Crimond, but the Women’s Lib group which Lily then frequented talked a lot about the affair, and though they did not esteem the institution of marriage voted Crimond a swine, a bully, a male chauvinist pig, and not at all politically sound on the liberation of women. When Crimond was speaking at a meeting near where Lily then lived in Camden Town she went along to look at him. She was captivated. It was not exactly being in love, Lily did not presume thus to entitle her obsession with Crimond. It was more like being
enslaved
in a situation where this was just something that happened to people and they took it for granted as a matter of fate and made the best of it. Some such picture, for Lily did not reflect upon the details, expressed the sort of hopeless unfrenzied fatalism of her condition. She pondered for a while about what to do. She went to another meeting, and another, travelling once across London, once to Cambridge. She managed on the second occasion, pushing her way through a bevy of excited students, his ‘Red Guards’ as someone called them, actually to talk to him. She pretended to be a representative of the local branch of the Socialist Women’s Workshop, a body she had heard of, and asked if she could come and see him. Looking at his watch he said she could write to him care of his publisher, and vanished. Lily gave herself up to a long interval in which to gloat over the idea of writing to him. But as the interval lengthened she realised that she could not write, she could not compose a clever enough letter. He would not answer and she would be in hell. She found out where he lived and went round
one morning, faint with fear, found Crimond alone, and offered her services as his messenger, his secretary, his housemaid, anything in his life. He told her to go round to the local Labour Party where they would give her some work to do. Departing almost in tears Lily was suddenly inspired to mention (which was then not too untrue) that she was a friend of Jean Kowitz. She also had the wit to use Jean’s maiden name. Crimond now really looked at her. Then he said, ‘Off you go.’ Lily was disappointed, yet she also knew that henceforth she existed for him.

Now she wrote a business-like letter saying (which was untrue) that she did a lot of typing for writers and scholars and would be glad to type anything for him. This received no answer. But when, after a judicious interval, Lily arrived early and sat in the front row of one of Crimond’s meetings, he recognised her and smiled. She then wrote again simply offering ‘typing service’ and sending good wishes. An impersonal communication from a secretarial agency asked her to do a rush job for Mr Crimond. Lily, taking leave from her office, worked demonically, then took the perfected typescript round in person. Someone took it from her and paid her, Crimond, glimpsed through a door, shouted thanks. Meanwhile, in real life, Lily was submitting to the embraces of sweet anaemic James Farling, whom, still Crimond’s slave and valuing herself at nothing, so it didn’t matter, she married. There followed the almost instant widowhood which left her with fame and fortune, at any rate with money (she could never get clear how much) and the tattered fame of some, not always friendly, references in the press. Presuming upon the degree of real being conferred by these assets she began to send Crimond occasional postcards with little messages of good wishes and references to her ‘typing bureau’. Time passed during which she went on through euphoria into depression. She began to feel that everyone was ‘after her money’, declared she was ‘through with men’ and would become a ‘recluse’. She renewed a friendship with a painter called Angela Parke whom she had known as a student, but quarrelled with her because of some imagined ‘slight’. She began to
believe that ‘people’ now thought of her as a stupid, vulgar, pushing woman who thought that money would ‘get her in anywhere’. She did a lot of solitary drinking. She worried ineffectually about her money which seemed to be disappearing. She felt continually snubbed, she had no friends and no world.

Lily was however, during this period, perceptibly supported by her curious one-sided relationship with Crimond. This was the one thing which remained intact and pure. Crimond played for her, during this time, the role of God. Here was one relation which required of her only the best and which could not be degraded. It was also of course a source of fear, since the power of this remote being over her was terrifying. Her postcards were of course never answered, but some more typing turned up, and she managed actually to see Crimond a few times and have brief conversations with him. On one happy day he called her ‘Lily’. She took in that she need fear no rebuff. Crimond, of whom so many robust people were afraid, could afford to be casually kind to the weak. Gradually she was able to frame more sensible plans for her immediate existence. She made spasmodic attempts to ‘improve her mind’, read a few high-brow novels and watched the ‘better’ programmes on television. She even attended (though briefly) evening classes in French. She felt she was actually changing a little. Earlier she would not have been capable of conceiving and achieving the odd little friendship she now had with Gulliver Ashe. Meanwhile her relation with Jean’s ‘set’, of which she had hoped much, remained disappointingly undeveloped. Jean had virtually dropped her, only Rose Curtland kept hold of her, inviting her to occasional gatherings of which nothing further came.

The gods, who in their bored way arrange such things in the destinies of mortal men, brought it about that as soon as Lily had, after prolonged and risky trying, established a very small real relationship with Crimond, her period of enslavement came to an end. Of course she still loved and valued Crimond more than anything in the world, but she was no longer the helpless slave of his consciousness. She could even begin to see
that he was not perfect, was able to criticise him to other people, even to enquire boldly about his sex life, of which however little was known. A lot of fear disappeared from her existence and she felt generally better. In the innumerable hours of reflection which Lily had of course devoted to the matter, she had turned over the idea that she ‘meant something’ to Crimond because of a presumed connection with Jean. She did not know what to make of this hypothesis, even whether or not she liked it. She told herself sensibly that really she meant nothing to Crimond, who casually tolerated her as he did innumerable other insignificant hangers-on. But still, half in secret from herself, she developed the idea that Crimond was somehow
keeping her on
, not for herself of course, but as a tool, a possible line of communication. It began to please Lily to think of herself in this respect as a ‘sleeper’, somebody stored away for possible future use. It was again a paradox that when the moment came for Lily to play indeed a crucial part in Crimond’s life she failed to recognise her role and very nearly did not play it. Lily had learnt from Rose, quite a long time beforehand, about the dance in Oxford, and who was going, even about Tamar and the American boy. As it happened, very shortly beforehand, she had one of her brief infrequent meetings, now much less emotionally terrifying, with Crimond for whom she had done some emergency typing. The typing was always of hastily written political stuff, not of the
book
of whose existence of course she knew, but which she had never seen. Crimond was by now living a much more solitary life in Camberwell, no longer supported by secretaries, helpers, admirers, Red Guards. Lily, coming by appointment, always found Crimond alone and was permitted a short chat, for which she always attempted to prepare something interesting to say. She had never, since that moment at the very start, dared to utter Jean’s name, but she occasionally mentioned having seen Rose or Gerard. She thought this might increase her standing in Crimond’s eyes, although she knew that relations between him and ‘the set’ were now extremely cool. Crimond never picked up these references, but did not seem annoyed by them either. In her
little babble about Rose, Lily came out with the news of the dance, which was now only a week away, saying ‘they’re all going’ and listing Mr and Mrs Cambus among the others. Crimond
immediately
said (the speed of this response later amazed her), ‘I think I’ll go too. Will you come with me?’ Lily nearly fainted with surprise and joy.

Her joy was less as, on reflection, she saw at once that the purpose of the expedition must be exactly what it turned out to be, and that she was being used at last, as she had long wanted to be, only now it did not feel so consoling, as a tool lying to hand. She even wondered whether Crimond imagined that Lily was actually
bringing a message
from Jean. She could not help however entertaining the wildest hopes of what might happen on that magic evening. She did not see him in the interim; she travelled to Oxford by bus as Crimond, not offering to convey her, had simply said he would meet her at the College Lodge. They went in together and moved toward the nearest tent where Crimond stood with Lily beside him, and started looking about. It was at that moment that Gulliver Ashe saw him. As it happened, Crimond was at once recognised by a group of left-wing graduate students, one of whom knew him personally, and was surrounded. Lily sat down by herself for a while and was at that time sighted by Tamar. As another dance began, the group round Crimond dissolved and Crimond himself disappeared. When Lily saw him again some time later he was dancing with Jean.

During the days and weeks after the dance Lily remained in a state of shock. She soon learnt, from Rose whom she made a point of seeing, that Jean had again left her husband and was with Crimond. Thinking endlessly about this, she began to realise that she had lost him. Some creatures have a mode of defence which when used brings about their death. Lily had achieved her supreme moment of being actually of use, indeed of crucial use, to Crimond, but had thereby ended their relationship. It was impossible,
entirely
impossible, for her to go near him now. No more typing, no postcards, no visits, no little chats, nothing. As soon as she realised that this was so, all Lily’s old silly love for him came flooding back, tinted now
with all those vain illusions and the bitter memory of how happy and proud she had felt walking with Crimond across the grass toward the dancing. She thought she would die of the chagrin, the shame and the loss. Then, as she heard Rose and other people saying that it wouldn’t last, Crimond was impossible, Jean was bound to leave him, Lily began to console herself with new pictures of being, one day, his old and dear friend, the one who, when all others proved faithless, had not left him. Of course she never revealed to anyone that she had told Crimond about the dance; and she could even feel a weird thrill to think that
she
had brought it all about. She almost felt sometimes, as she waited and waited and made no sign, as if she had a kind of secret power over him.

‘There’s no need for you to say anything special to Jean,’ said Gerard to Tamar. ‘Just go to see her. You yourself are the message.’