The Needle's Eye (32 page)

When he had put down the phone, he thought, so it was not Christopher Vassiliou and the children that I saw. But it made no difference for it was the same as if he had seen them. It had had the same as yet dim effect.

And oddly enough, almost the first person that he saw, on returning to London the next weekend, was Christopher Vassiliou himself. In a way it was not odd, as he knew from Rose that he lived near: and indeed, when he saw him, he realized that he had seen him before without recognizing him, so changed was he from the haggard anxious press cuttings which were all that he had had to go on. And on this occasion, he identified him from the children: there they were, Konstantin, Marcus and Maria, sitting in a large Jaguar, driving past his very front door, where he was standing, about to unpack the luggage from his own car. They saw him, they waved and shouted, the little ones, who were in the back: ‘Simon,’ they yelled, ‘Hey, Simon,’ – and he called and waved back, at their smiling excited faces. Konstantin, sitting in front with his father, did not call, and waved only when there was no option, the expression on his face denoting, even in so brief a passing, a regret that he, unlike the little ones, could not wave and shout without circumspection, and a personal message that it was not through reluctance to greet Simon that he had failed to do so. He learns in a hard school, Simon thought. Christopher, at the sound of the shouting, halting at the adjacent cross-roads, had turned to look in his direction, and their eyes had met, without recognition, it would have seemed. He had changed, Christopher Vassiliou, from those early days in Camden Town: gone was
the skinny famished dangerous glamour, the long hair, the untidy cheap flash clothes. He had put on weight, he had solidified, he had occupied space. His hair was short, as short as Simon’s own, and he wore a suit: his face had squared up, his shoulders under his jacket looked substantial, his skin had a white certainty, as though that which had been added, over the past few years, was the weight of England, covering up the dark exposed street-living of his childhood. His only concession to the flash which he had once so affected was a pair of dark glasses, which emphasised his air of well-being. He was a good-looking man, a finished and serious person: it suited him, this new style, the transition had not been at the expense of his presence, he had not faded into any ranks, he had done it in style, he had not cut himself after a commonplace model. Simon, standing there with a suitcase in his hand, as the Jaguar receded, felt such instant and confusing pangs that he remained there for a moment before he could bring himself to move. It was shocking, to see those children, children so firmly placed in his mind, in so different a context – and laughing there, enjoying themselves – and it was shocking, too, to see the man manifested, to see him in the flesh. He had known that it was coming: the false shadow in Cornwall had been a portent. It would have to be dealt with, this new dimension, and there would be worse to come. He felt it, on Rose’s behalf: he was entering into her own land, her realities would become real for him, he too would have to stand there.

He rang her, the next week, as soon as he had time, and arranged to go and see her. He arrived in the early afternoon, and could see the children playing in the street, as soon as he turned the corner: it was still the school holidays. It was a sunny day, freakishly warm for the time of year: front doors stood open, and women stood chatting on doorsteps, and prams with babies in were taking the air. He could see that such a street, profoundly depressing as it still appeared to him, might take on a more loved aspect, particularly in such weather. As he drew up against the kerb, Marcus and Maria noticed him, and came running over, followed by a troupe of other children, one on a tricycle, one pushing another in a derelict pushchair, one on a scooter. ‘Hello, you lot,’ he said, uneasily, as he got out of the car: he
hated the tone of his voice when he spoke to children. But they didn’t seem to take offence. ‘Hello, hello Simon,’ they said, pleased to have a visitor, and followed him to the front door of their house. Konstantin was sitting on the steps there, reading. ‘Hello,’ he said, and Simon paused. ‘Your mother’s in, isn’t she?’ he said: he knew she was, having telephoned before setting off. ‘She’s doing the ironing,’ said Konstantin. And then, making an imperceptible effort, he added, smiling, ‘We saw you, the other day. Driving down your street.’

‘Yes, I saw you,’ said Simon.

‘Our Dad’s got a new car,’ said Marcus.

‘Yes, I saw it,’ said Simon. ‘Great, isn’t it?’

‘It’s
fantastic
,’ said Marcus, and the two little ones started to enthuse, boasting before the silent audience of their listening neighbours: it was full of gadgets, you could do this and you could do that, you could go at so many miles an hour if you were allowed to but you’re not, and its numberplate was WOW 717 which was a specially lucky number. While this was going on, Simon watched Konstantin: he could see him, physically struggling with his loyalty, and in the end he lost, because he too started to chatter, excited, impressed: there were two tanks for petrol, did Simon know, and this new model had a new special way for opening the windows, they didn’t just open, you pressed a button, and Daddy liked it, he said it was a terrible effort opening windows, but with this electric button you could just press and it slid up and down. He must have bought it to amuse them, thought Simon: and he had certainly succeeded.

They followed him down, when he went to look for Rose: the door being open, he walked straight in. She was doing the ironing: she looked up as he entered, and smiled, but before he could speak, Konstantin said, ‘Here’s Simon, Mum, we were just telling him about Dad’s new car.’ Simon watched them both, mother and child, as he said this, and it seemed to him that he could see them both wince at the injury, wince, repent, forgive, and draw together, all in the instant.

‘Yes,’ said Rose. ‘They’re very excited about it. It’s very nice, I hear.’

‘I saw it,’ said Simon.

‘So I heard,’ said Rose.

‘You hear everything,’ said Simon.

‘Yes,’ said Rose.

He sat down. ‘You don’t mind if I finish the ironing, do you?’ she said. ‘We could go out for a walk, later. It’s such a nice day. If you’ve time. I hope you don’t mind, Emily said she might come round this afternoon, too. I didn’t like to say no. She was away for Easter and I haven’t seen her.’

‘Of course I don’t mind,’ he said.

‘How’s your book?’ she asked, and he told her: they were getting on with it quite well, quicker than they had thought they would, and it would take them only another few sessions to finish it.

‘And what about you?’ he said.

‘Oh me, I’m fine,’ she said. ‘I went to the launderette this morning, and there was quite a scene there, it was awful really, but quite funny I suppose, there was this poor woman who dropped a packet of mince in with her washing, and she didn’t notice at first, and when she’d found what she’d done, well, what could one do, really? There it was, all swirling round, looking all grey and bloodless, you know what meat goes like in water, and it was stuck all over everything, poor woman, we all had to help her pick it off, you’ve never seen such a sight. Poor woman, she had to wash them all over again, and she lost her mince. You’d be amazed, the things that happen in the launderette. I used to work there, you know. There was a drama a day. Once somebody put a mouse in, in her little boy’s trouser pocket. He came belting along when he realized she’d taken the trousers, yelling Mum, Mum, where’s my mouse. It was dead, poor thing.’

‘What did you used to do there?’

‘I was the supervisor. What a job. The machines were always going wrong and I could never get hold of the man who fixes them. At first I used to refund people their money, I felt so sorry for them, but Mr Mackay who owns it would never give it me back, so I organized a complaints and refund system. But people tell me it doesn’t work very well, you’re lucky if you ever see your money again.
They’re so fatalistic, they don’t even bother to fill in the Refund Card. There was one woman who came with all the loose covers off her suite, terribly heavy blue stuff, and she put it in and it all started going round nicely – unbelievably dirty they were, the water looked like brown soup, and she and I stared at it thinking what a good job she was doing and about time too, but the thing was that the machine wouldn’t stop going, it just went on and on, for about an hour, and never got to the spinning part. I really didn’t know what to do, she was awfully upset about it, and in the end we just had to drag them out, they were so wet and heavy, and I told her to put them in another machine to spin, but she wouldn’t, she said she couldn’t afford it, she didn’t trust them any more, and there they lay, all over the floor, getting dirtier and dirtier. Then she burst into tears, I don’t blame her, and said how ever was she going to get them home, and I had to lend her Marcus’s pushchair, and we heaved all this sodden great heap of stuff into it and off she went. God knows how she ever got them dry. Oh, there was never a dull moment. This woman with her mince, today, that was really quite something. I was glad I wasn’t in charge. She couldn’t bear to give it up, you know. She kept saying, perhaps if I stick it all together it’ll fry all right.’

She folded a grey school shirt, carefully. The children had filtered off.

‘Perhaps you could look at that draft affidavit,’ she said. ‘Before Emily arrives. It’s on the mantelpiece there, behind the clock.’

He read it, carefully. It was official, dry, unexceptionable. I, Peter Harold Stone, make oath and say, it said, that these three children are achieving the required educational standards for their age groups: their reading ages are above (figures quoted) the average, they attend school regularly, have no discipline problems, are co-operative members of their class and of the school. There was nothing much wrong with it, as a statement.

‘What do you think of it?’ he said.

‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘What do you? It seems all right, I suppose. It’s just that he sounds so unenthusiastic.’

‘What kind of a man is he?’

‘He’s so nice, really, he’s a very good headmaster, the children like
him a lot, but it’s always the same, whenever he has anything official to do or say, he comes out sounding like that.’ She thought about Mr Stone: grey-haired, industrious, devoted. ‘You know, when he introduces the school concert, he makes this little speech, and it’s always the same, as boring as hell, about communal effort and being members of a community and stuff, all words the children don’t understand too well nor the parents either, and then you get him alone afterwards, and he’s so nice, and interested – I think he’s just shy, really. This awful language kind of comes over him, when he has to speak in public. The same in interviews, and on his school reports. I hope it won’t matter. He really is nice, as a person. I never forget, one day when Konstantin was six, and I let him come home on his own because it was so exhausting getting the others into their coats and hats and boots and things, I suppose I was wrong really, but all the other kids came home alone, you know – anyway, this day Konstantin didn’t turn up, and I waited and waited, and then at about half four I set off to look for him, I was quite distraught by this time, and I’d got the pram and Marcus whining along after me, and I met Mr Stone on the way to school, and he said how was I, and I said I was looking for Konstantin, and he went all the way back to school with me to look, and he wasn’t there, and then he said don’t worry, he’ll have gone to see a friend, and I was in such a panic by this time, and couldn’t think which friend, and he took me into school and he knew all his friends’ names, and looked up their addresses, and said, I bet he’s with John on Albemarle Road, and he took me round, and there he was. And he said such a nice thing, when Konstantin came to the door with John, he said to him – and there was me, all overcome with relief and so pleased to see the child again – he said, ‘Well, Konstantin, give her two minutes, and she’ll be shouting at you, and she’ll be quite right, too.’ No, he really is a nice man. It’s just that he can’t manage to sound it. You don’t think it matters, do you?’

‘No, I don’t suppose so. Lawyers are used to this kind of statement. They read between the lines. In fact, people often get suspicious, I’m glad to say, of the too expert witness. There are some doctors and psychiatrists, you know, who make a business out of it –
the nicely turned phrase, the helpful evidence. They do it too often, some of them. People get to know them. A rotten psychiatrist, they say, but a useful witness. No, at least your Mr Stone sounds as though he means what he says, even though he doesn’t say very much.’

‘Is there anything else he ought to say, do you think?’

‘I don’t know, I was just wondering. Perhaps – perhaps you could get him to put something in about the children’s music. Konstantin’s very good at the oboe, after all, and it’s exactly the kind of extra that one might not expect a school like that to encourage …’

‘I don’t see
why
one should not expect –’ she started, defensively, about to launch, he could tell, into her defence speech: and then paused, and caught herself at it, and smiled, and said, ‘Yes, yes, of course you’re right, one ought to put it all in. Yes. Thank you. That’s a very good idea.’

‘You see,’ he said, defensive himself now, ‘you ought to try to think of the kinds of complaints that are likely to be made, and one of them is sure to be that the children aren’t given enough of the kind of extra opportunity that they might get at a different kind of school …’

He was on bad ground, he didn’t like it, but she began to laugh, and said, ‘Extra opportunities, extra opportunities. Perhaps I should start Maria off on ballet. It makes me feel quite ill, small children doing ballet, I don’t know why. Perhaps I should take the judge off to see their favourite spare-time activity, which is larking about on Thursday evenings at the Club. You should see the Club, what a dump, it’s in the downstairs bit of the Clinic, which is horrid enough by any standards, and this Club, they get an hour and a half and some biscuits for twopence a time, and you should see the kids, no socks, no pants, what a sight, and there’s a horrible bully of a man who organizes it, and yells at them all the time. Mine love it, God knows why. It’s like a monkey house, I’d feel really guilty, I really would feel guilty if I
made
them go to that, but they love it. Children are very odd. Don’t you think?’