Somewhere Beyond Reproach Page 6

  ‘You won’t tell your mother I took you out, will you?’

  ‘Why not?’ he asked slyly.

  ‘Because I’d rather you didn’t.’

  Andrew accepted this adult evasion.

  ‘You mustn’t tell her about this car either.’

  He didn’t bother to ask why. I looked at him carefully. I felt fairly confident that both these requests would be repeated more or less accurately.

  As I let out the clutch and swung the car out smoothly into the road, Andrew asked:

  ‘How fast does it go?’

  ‘Fast enough.’

  ‘Over a hundred?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Can we go over a hundred today?’

  ‘Not in London.’

  I could keep a run on the motorway as a card in reserve.

  ‘Do you often go to the cinema?’ I asked.

  ‘Sometimes with Mummy.’

  ‘Daddy?’

  ‘Nope.’ He looked out of the window as though resenting these intrusions into an evidently deprived childhood. He turned to me and said with unexpected vehemence:

  ‘My father can’t take me to the cinema. He would if he could.’

  I wondered if this was a loyal defence of his father or a chance to self-dramatise. I waited for him to tell me about his father’s awful disability. My admiration for the child was considerable. He didn’t say another word about it. Perhaps though with a child’s longing for ‘normal’ parents, he was ashamed. I didn’t think so though.

  ‘What are we going to see?’ he asked, trying not to sound too excited at the prospect of an afternoon in the flickering darkness of a West End cinema.

  ‘A western.’

  ‘You’ll enjoy it too?’ he asked me seriously.

  ‘I’m far too selfish to take you to something I’d hate.’

  The child settled back satisfied. His earnestness appealed to me.

  *

  Andrew declined an ice-cream. I didn’t try to press him. He seemed happy to sit back doing nothing, waiting till the curtain rose.

  The theme music swelled to a crescendo as the lights went down. The curtain rose mechanically gathering up each silken pleat. An endless corn prairie was revealed. We zoomed in on the ears of corn gently swaying in the hot breeze. Then a farm house and a stream. A completely tranquil scene. Suddenly screams, the dust thrown up by the hooves of Indian horses. The corn was in flames, the timbered roof of the farm crackled merrily as the inhabitants saw their blood drain into the placid waters of their once idyllic stream. I looked at Andrew’s face in silhouette, as he craned forward to get a better view. I saw the look of complete absorption that I must once have worn in similar circumstances. I thought back. I had always favoured soldiers to cowboys and Indians; since my childhood was during the war I generally got what I wanted. Contests between ‘our fighting boys’ and the Hun; children’s cut-price Saturday shows. Then home again to knock down toy soldiers with matchsticks fired from unreliable cannons. There had been slaughters as splendid as Bunker Hill, only in my battles the victims rarely had red coats; only a few for realism.

  Two American Army soldiers were being chased along a gorge by a band of Indians. The soldiers were carrying news of the farm massacre. Soon both the blue-coated riders’ horses had been hit. With their backs to a rock they fought on gamely. The Indians fell like ninepins but in the end the superior numbers told. The last soldier fought on for several minutes before heroism received the inevitable reward of a hero’s death.

  I looked sideways at Andrew again. I saw that he was clutching the arms of his chair. I should like to have taken his hand. I thought of the love that Dinah must feel for him. For several minutes the child became much more than a device for gaining my ends. He was wearing shorts. Shorts in December. I looked at his bare and hairless knees with sympathy. I reached out a hand and squeezed his right leg.

  ‘Are you enjoying it?’ I whispered.

  ‘Shush!’

  The scene switched to an American Army camp complete with watch tower and wooden palisading. Two officers were talking heatedly. One, who appeared to be the commanding officer, said:

  ‘To hell with the promised supplies. I’m going to finish Running Bull once and for all.’

  The other officer stepped forward till he was almost treading on his superior’s toes:

  ‘But those Indians are starving. There’s been no rain for seven months. If you were starving would you just sit on your arse in a reserve and wait till you dropped dead?’

  ‘Supplies were promised only on condition that they stopped in their reservation.’

  ‘Those supplies should have been sent months ago.’

  ‘Do you know what they did to two of our scouts?’ The speaker paused. We were given a close up of his bloodshot eyes. ‘I’ll tell you …’ Another pause, then he whispered with almost sadistic satisfaction: ‘They mutilated them. They’re nothing but savages.’

  ‘They’re dying of starvation.’

  ‘Lieutenant, just get out there and give the orders for an advance.’ He turned away and then spat out of the corner of a sneering mouth: ‘Unless you want to see what they did to those men.’

  A close-up of the military man tortured by his scruples. Then a quick salute.

  The scene ended with a long blue column of riders thundering out of the camp gates. The flag fluttered proudly at their head. A trail of dust clouds stretched out behind.

  ‘Who do you think is going to win?’ I whispered.

  ‘The army of course,’ he replied without a moment’s hesitation.

  ‘Doesn’t it spoil it if you know who’s going to win?’

  ‘No,’ he said abruptly and raised a hand to keep me quiet.

  The army did win. The battle was long and hard. The Indian force died three times over; unless those already shot had been pretending. A cunning Indian who had shammed dead was about to cut down the commanding officer. I saw Andrew’s mouth open as if to warn him. The film makers however had decided that such an inhuman monster must surely die. The lieutenant risked his own life as he bent over him and unfastened his tunic. The bloodshot eyes closed for the last time. In the end only Running Bull and a handful of braves survived to be led back to their reserves. The Lieutenant signed a paper giving the necessary supplies to the Indians, neither would the vultures go hungry.

  When we got out it was almost dark. I decided we might risk looking at the Christmas decorations in Regent Street before returning to Wimbledon. The rush-hour crowd milled on the pavements looking in at the well-lit windows. Both Andrew and I agreed that the decorations were beautiful. Less than a week to Christmas. The nylon shimmering trees, the paper Santa Clauses, the tinsel, all made me feel lonely. My mother was the only person I felt able to give a present to. Andrew’s face was pressed against the window of a jewellers. I would give him a present.

  ‘I’m going to give you something for Christmas,’ I said suddenly. He looked at me with a bewildered expression.

  ‘Would Granny let you?’ he asked doubtfully.

  ‘You don’t have to tell her. I could buy it tomorrow and send it to your home.’

  ‘It won’t arrive in time with the post delay. Mummy posted something last week and it still hasn’t got to the person.’ Andrew looked at me downcast.

  ‘I could bring it round.’

  ‘My mother mightn’t let me keep it.’

  I felt slightly discouraged by all these objections. Nevertheless I felt he might be right. Handsome presents from people hardly known are always treated with suspicion and as a rule rightly. I thought quickly.

  ‘If I bring it round when your mother’s out, you could unwrap it before she comes back, so then nobody would be able to return it.’

  He thought for a moment before agreeing. He thought that she would be out during the afternoon the following day. I could ring up and check so there was no danger of running into her by mistake. I told him he could say who had given it. There was certain to be some kind of
response. My standing with the child was already good.

  The time had come for my being able to make this very indirect approach. By that time I should have seen the inside of the flat. I had already learned something about Simpson. Dinah’s response to what was going to be a very handsome present to her son, was going to tell me something about her. When we met the meeting would have a context. We would have a base to work from. My approach would not be the fumbling effort of a hopeless lover returning too late out of the blue and begging to be taken back. I should be the old friend who had forgotten all resentment, who had genuinely liked her, in a relationship that could exist without sex. That would be to start with. She would confide in me, cry on my shoulder and finally realise that she depended on me too much to live without me. My optimism knew no bounds as I drove Andrew back to Wimbledon that evening. On delivering him I was quite spontaneously pleasant to Mrs Lisle. She looked surprised. Andrew looked happy. He winked at me as I left: an acknowledgement of our conspiracy.

  Nine

  I had little difficulty in choosing what to give Andrew. My memory of the toy soldiers I had once possessed and the guns I had aimed at them decided me to give much the same to him.

  When I got home to my flat I examined my purchases more carefully: a particularly fine tank and some larger than standard-sized toy soldiers in modern battle dress. I looked at them and, as I did, recaptured exactly the feeling of pride I should have experienced to possess them at Andrew’s age. No; these would not be sent back without a very considerable fuss. The tank was beautifully made, powered by electricity and able to fire small metal dummy shells. I was specially impressed with the spring-loading mechanism. I looked at the construction of the thing. It almost appeared to have been made in sections like the real article; rivet marks were clearly visible. The detail picked out on the soldiers’ firearms was exact. Their toecaps were shinier than the rest of their boots. I had bought a dozen of them.

  My lack of concern for my domestic environment at that time has been reflected in these pages by lack of reference to it. I then lived in a flat just south of Kensington Gardens. The block had probably been put up in the early thirties. I had been lazy about the furnishing of my half a dozen or so rooms. I had had fitted carpets all over the flat except in the kitchen. I had not taken the trouble to choose different colours. A uniform grey covered the whole floor area. I had been equally lazy about the curtains: all these were a warm yellow ochre. The effect, if monotonous, did not displease me. I had not bothered to furnish my second bedroom or the hall. The sitting room contained a black leather-covered sofa and two arm-chairs to match. A white marble-topped table, nothing much else. I lived alone. What point is there in living in a beautiful house if there is nobody you care about enough to show it to?

  I took the tank and several of the soldiers out into the long thin hall. At one end I placed two soldiers; I walked to the opposite end and knelt down with the tank. I loaded, looked down the barrel and fired. One of the soldiers toppled. I fired again. The other rolled over. I looked at the tank with even greater satisfaction.

  I wondered what Simpson’s attitude to these deadly toys would be. I started to hum ‘Onward Christian Soldiers’ as I packed them up.

  That afternoon I rang up the Simpson flat, as had previously been arranged. Andrew answered. His mother had already gone out. I put down the receiver and snatched up my parcel.

  I was outside the well-known mansions within quarter of an hour. The hall was at least clean. On a large sham-Jacobean table the letters of the residents living in flats 18 to 36 were placed. Simpson’s flat was 23. I crossed the tiled floor and got into the antiquated lift. The doors were heavy and stiff. The sides of the lift were decorated with marquetry work, several elephants, the odd palm tree in different-coloured woods.

  When I got to the relevant floor Andrew was waiting outside the lift. He had evidently been watching for my car. For a moment I thought that he was not going to ask me into the flat. He turned, however, and beckoned me along the corridor, silent as a native guide not wishing to disturb hostile animals. The door was open. I looked in on an uncarpeted hall. On one side was a long table covered with comics, papers and opened letters. Beside it was a folded wheelchair. A well-filled laundry basket half blocked the floor. A towel was sticking out of one side. As we stepped over it I saw the bathroom to my right. A pulley arrangement over the bath to aid Simpson. On the shelf above the wash basin were bottles of cream and a large assortment of cosmetics. Various toy boats and animals lay about on the floor. Andrew shut the door as though conscious of the direction of my gaze. The next room we passed appeared to be a study. I saw a desk and bookcase out of the corner of my eye. I would not make the mistake of seeming inquisitive again. I was led into the sitting room. At the far end was a french window leading out on to a balcony with elaborate Victorian railings. The room was light and not unpleasant. The chair covers did not match, one a bold chintz, another yellow, another olive green. A selection of worn rugs covered part of the parquet floor. Simpson would have to be careful on that surface with his stick. Andrew knelt down by the window and started to unwrap my offering. He did it carefully, without hurrying, as though loath to lose any of the pleasure of anticipation. I recognised the blue china vases that Dinah had once had on her mantelpiece at her old Paddington flat. These were on top of an upright piano to the left of the door. In the centre of the mantelpiece was a carriage clock in a leather case, on each side of it were matching china bowls. On a table by the french window was a large toby jug and a Chinese plate on a stand. How unlike my own home! There was something accidental about the layout of the whole room, a feeling that the objects and furniture themselves had been acquired by chance. I wondered where the bedroom was. Would there be clothes lying about, a rumpled bed? Judging by the bathroom, quite probably. Did Simpson now sleep in a separate room?

  Andrew had undone his parcel. He stared in complete silence. I watched him without as much attentiveness as I had thought I would. I was more absorbed by my surroundings. I longed to be able to go into Simpson’s study. To read a diary, letters, anything that might tell me more about him. I regretted having caught a cold the morning I had followed him. I could smell nothing, not even catch the slightest tang of one of Dinah’s well-remembered scents. Where might she keep her letters? Where did she normally sit? How much time did she spend in this room? Did she ever sew? Andrew had just loaded the tank. I walked over to the balcony. In spite of my cold I opened the glass balcony doors and looked over at the roofs of the houses opposite, at the doorway where I had waited for Simpson. I leant against the green-painted metal railings. I heard Andrew say:

  ‘I think it’s one of the nicest presents I’ve ever had.’

  He came out on to the balcony and stood next to me.

  ‘Thank you very very much.’

  ‘I enjoyed choosing it,’ I replied truthfully. ‘I had a go with it myself.’

  Suddenly there was the noise of the released spring.

  ‘Damn, I caught the catch with my sleeve.’ Andrew looked down into the street miserably. ‘It went down there. I think it’s in the gutter on the opposite side.’

  ‘But you’ve still got some more shells.’

  ‘I don’t want to lose any.’ He rushed back into the room. ‘You wait up here. I’m going down to find it.’

  I could hardly believe my good fortune. As soon as I heard his feet in the corridor outside the flat, I quickly left the room and headed for Simpson’s study.

  The study was dark. A single window faced on to the well in the centre of the block of flats. In this room there was a new fitted carpet, probably put in after his illness. The writing desk had a number of drawers. On top were several letters and a large office-type diary. I flicked through the pages. There was hardly anything there. The odd address, a name here and there: a purely utilitarian document. One of the letters was from his father, another I found too time-consuming to read. The top drawer was locked; so was the one immediately
below it; the bottom drawer had a key in it. Inside were a number of typewritten pages. They didn’t seem to be in any kind of order. At the top of one I saw the words ‘Mapham Hospital’ and a date ‘November 1958’. I picked some of them out, preparing to read. I had not taken off my overcoat, which was fortunate. I heard footsteps in the corridor. He had been quicker than I expected. I picked a sheaf of papers out of the drawer and stuffed them into one of the deep pockets of my coat. I snatched up several more. Hastily I shut the drawer and walked out into the hall. When Andrew entered the flat I was admiring a print in the hall; London Bridge in 1740. The sky was haphazardly patterned with damp spots.

  ‘A man in the street saw it land,’ said Andrew with relief.

  I looked at my watch.

  ‘When does your mother get back?’

  ‘Crikey,’ he gasped. ‘Any minute now.’

  The fire-escape led out from the bathroom. I was sorry not to have seen another room, but I had done extremely well. As I started to go down the black metal staircase, he called out:

  ‘Thanks.’ Then, aware that this was inadequate, ‘Thanks awfully.’

  I waved. I had been instructed to use the back entrance, which led through the basement and the boiler rooms. In a dark pipe-lined corridor I bumped into a porter. ‘You can’t get out this way, sir.’

  ‘I was told this led out to the back.’

  ‘There’s builders there now, sir.’

  I turned round and started to retrace my steps uncertainly.

  ‘I’ll show you the front way.’

  ‘I’m sure I can find my own …’

  ‘I’m going that way anyway.’

  I looked at the carefully polished brass buttons on his green uniform. From his manner I guessed that he might have once been an army N.C.O. As soon as we got into the hall I saw Dinah standing in front of the Jacobean letter table. She looked up as she heard our footsteps. I couldn’t possibly risk talking to her until she had seen the presents, until I had read what was in my pocket. I side-stepped into the lift and pressed the button for the floor above Dinah’s. I had not looked at her face for more than a split second. No chance to work out whether she had recognised me. As the lift started to move, I heard the porter say: ‘Funny bloke.’ When I got out I was trembling. The palms of my hands were sticky and my mouth felt dry. I remembered my meeting in the shop years before. I forgot the fact that she had injured me and would probably be more embarrassed than I. Did it matter if she had seen me? I decided it was not crucial. The important thing was that I hadn’t had to talk to her. I suddenly realised that on the two times I had seen her I had not seen her face properly. It was impossible that time could have ravaged her in the same way as it had Simpson. I had almost purposely not thought about her. I had followed Simpson and taken some private papers inadvertently unlocked. I had won Andrew’s friendship, but Dinah I had kept firmly till last, unable to think about the possibility of change in her. I would have to talk to her. There could be no taking for granted a relationship based on mutual and silent communication this time. After all my planning, what then? That could not be similarly planned.