you,’ and I stared up at the raw spots on his cheek and thought, there is no safety anywhere: a humpback, a cripple - they all have the trigger that sets love off.
‘What was the real purpose of your coming?’ he suddenly broke into my thoughts. ‘I told Miss Smythe - a man called Wilson…’
‘I don’t remember your face, but I remember your son’s.’ He made a short frustrated gesture as though he wanted to touch the boy’s hand: his eyes had a kind of abstract tenderness. He said, ‘You don’t have to be afraid of me. I am used to people coming here. I assure you I only want to be of use.’
Miss Smythe explained, ‘People are often so shy.’ I couldn’t for the life of me think what it was all about.
‘I was just looking for a man called Wilson.’
‘You know that I know there’s no such man.’
‘If you would lend me a telephone directory I could check his address…’
‘Sit down again,’ he said and brooded gloomily over the boy.
‘I must be going. Arthur’s feeling better and Wilson…’ His ambiguity made me ill at ease.
‘You can go if you want to, of course, but can’t you leave the boy here - if only for half an hour? I want to talk to him.’ It occurred to me that he had recognized Parkis’s assistant and was going to cross-question him. I said, ‘Anything you want to ask him you can ask me.’
Every time he turned his unmarked cheek towards me my anger grew: every time I saw the ugly flawed cheek it died away and I couldn’t believe - any more than I could believe that lust existed here among the flowered cretonnes, with Miss Smythe getting tea. But despair can always produce an answer and despair asked me now: Would you so much rather it was love and not lust?
‘You and I are too old,’ he said. ‘But the schoolmasters and the priests - they’ve only just begun to corrupt him with their lies.’
‘I don’t know what the hell you mean,’ I said, and added quickly, ‘I’m sorry,’ to Miss Smythe.
‘There you are, you see,’ he said. ‘Hell, and if I angered you, as like as not you’d say My God.’
It seemed to me that I had shocked him: he might be a Nonconformist minister: Miss Smythe had said he worked on Sundays, but how horribly bizarre that a man like that should be Sarah’s lover. Suddenly it diminished her importance: her love affair became a joke: she herself might be used as a comic anecdote at my next dinner party. For a moment I was free of her. The boy said, ‘I feel sick. Can I have some more orangeade?’
Miss Smythe said, ‘My dear, I think you’d better not.’
‘Really I must be taking him away. It’s been very good of you.’ I tried to keep the spots well in view. I said, ‘I’m very sorry if I offended you at all. It was quite by accident. I don’t happen to share your religious beliefs.’
He looked at me with surprise. ‘But I have none. I believe in nothing.’
‘I thought you objected…’
‘I hate the trappings that are left over. Forgive me. I go too far, Mr Bridges, I know, but I’m sometimes afraid that people will be reminded even by conventional words -good-bye for instance. If only I could believe that my grandson would not even know what a word like god had meant to us any more than a word in Swahili.’
‘Have you a grandson?’
He said gloomily, ‘I have no children. I envy you your boy. It’s a great duty and a great responsibility,’
‘What did you want to ask him?’
‘I wanted him to feel at home here because then he might return. There are so many things one wants to tell a child. How the world came into existence. I wanted to tell him about death. I wanted to rid him of all the lies they inject at school.’
‘Rather a lot to do in half an hour.’
‘One can sow a seed.’
I said maliciously, ‘That comes out of the Gospels.’
‘Oh, I’ve been corrupted too. You don’t need to tell me that.’
‘Do people really come to you - on the quiet?’
‘You’d be surprised,’
‘What was the real purpose of your coming?’ he suddenly broke into my thoughts. ‘I told Miss Smythe - a man called Wilson…’
‘I don’t remember your face, but I remember your son’s.’ He made a short frustrated gesture as though he wanted to touch the boy’s hand: his eyes had a kind of abstract tenderness. He said, ‘You don’t have to be afraid of me. I am used to people coming here. I assure you I only want to be of use.’
Miss Smythe explained, ‘People are often so shy.’ I couldn’t for the life of me think what it was all about.
‘I was just looking for a man called Wilson.’
‘You know that I know there’s no such man.’
‘If you would lend me a telephone directory I could check his address…’
‘Sit down again,’ he said and brooded gloomily over the boy.
‘I must be going. Arthur’s feeling better and Wilson…’ His ambiguity made me ill at ease.
‘You can go if you want to, of course, but can’t you leave the boy here - if only for half an hour? I want to talk to him.’ It occurred to me that he had recognized Parkis’s assistant and was going to cross-question him. I said, ‘Anything you want to ask him you can ask me.’
Every time he turned his unmarked cheek towards me my anger grew: every time I saw the ugly flawed cheek it died away and I couldn’t believe - any more than I could believe that lust existed here among the flowered cretonnes, with Miss Smythe getting tea. But despair can always produce an answer and despair asked me now: Would you so much rather it was love and not lust?
‘You and I are too old,’ he said. ‘But the schoolmasters and the priests - they’ve only just begun to corrupt him with their lies.’
‘I don’t know what the hell you mean,’ I said, and added quickly, ‘I’m sorry,’ to Miss Smythe.
‘There you are, you see,’ he said. ‘Hell, and if I angered you, as like as not you’d say My God.’
It seemed to me that I had shocked him: he might be a Nonconformist minister: Miss Smythe had said he worked on Sundays, but how horribly bizarre that a man like that should be Sarah’s lover. Suddenly it diminished her importance: her love affair became a joke: she herself might be used as a comic anecdote at my next dinner party. For a moment I was free of her. The boy said, ‘I feel sick. Can I have some more orangeade?’
Miss Smythe said, ‘My dear, I think you’d better not.’
‘Really I must be taking him away. It’s been very good of you.’ I tried to keep the spots well in view. I said, ‘I’m very sorry if I offended you at all. It was quite by accident. I don’t happen to share your religious beliefs.’
He looked at me with surprise. ‘But I have none. I believe in nothing.’
‘I thought you objected…’
‘I hate the trappings that are left over. Forgive me. I go too far, Mr Bridges, I know, but I’m sometimes afraid that people will be reminded even by conventional words -good-bye for instance. If only I could believe that my grandson would not even know what a word like god had meant to us any more than a word in Swahili.’
‘Have you a grandson?’
He said gloomily, ‘I have no children. I envy you your boy. It’s a great duty and a great responsibility,’
‘What did you want to ask him?’
‘I wanted him to feel at home here because then he might return. There are so many things one wants to tell a child. How the world came into existence. I wanted to tell him about death. I wanted to rid him of all the lies they inject at school.’
‘Rather a lot to do in half an hour.’
‘One can sow a seed.’
I said maliciously, ‘That comes out of the Gospels.’
‘Oh, I’ve been corrupted too. You don’t need to tell me that.’
‘Do people really come to you - on the quiet?’
‘You’d be surprised,’
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