However, Stanton the charter man in London got after me to book some tours that were a new extension of our services to American tourists including hotel accommodations and tight time tables for visiting Stately Houses and Civil War castles, the American Museum at Bath and cathedrals up as near the Scottish border as bare towering Durham where the Venerable Bede seems to be interred — which was what saddled me with this chore in the first place, for I’d told Stanton I’d be away the first part of that week seeing a man at Union Carbide’s plant in Durham, and Stanton had made it hard for me to refuse, and it meant money, so I didn’t think about Dagger for a few days during which I was home just often enough to take Lorna to a party at Geoff Millan’s and to have a discussion with Jenny about her social life interfering with her Latin A-levels — her social life being the guerrilla-theater actor — and when she spoke of the trips she and Will (then Billy) and I took to the Science Museum and the Natural History Museum in the old days to push the buttons and clock the dinosaur, it stuck in my head and when I not Dagger suggested the Underground not at Tottenham Court Road or Piccadilly where you might expect to see kids banging guitars but the old long dusky I tunnel under the Science Museum and the Natural History Museum I connecting with the South Ken Underground and Dagger didn’t say anything but looked through his supplies in a shelf of the glass cabinet and brought out two 100-foot-reel cans in their boxes and said absent-mindedly, How much of this are we going to need for sound track, and when I said That’s film, I thought Alba’s coolness might mean they’d had a fight and Dagger was going around in circles for the moment like me more than two months later in face of Lorna’s coolness over breakfast in the seaside B & B getting Nixon’s devaluation on the news but being more conscious of the first B than of egg and sausages.
Which made me hungry through my heat and through the pain in my stomach (which might well be less Kate’s sandwich than a shtip of guilt which even a minor god can feel) and spinning from ’the bathroom darkroom past the comb of whatever color and in another direction away from the entrapping axis of living room/balcony room into the kitchen I found hanging near a window a salami in its unbreached skin, and to find a knife I switched on a light which set off a ventilator, and then grasping the knife I spun away again into the dark of the hall and the balcony room to the glassed cabinet, for Dagger’s absent-mindedness put me in mind of what I now withdrew from the low shelf where the Sony no recorders were: and indeed three of the little cassette boxes, resealed so that in Krish’s light I made out only a tiny almost imaginary line of slit, contained not cassettes but Nagra spools. These I put in the tight pockets of my jeans, turning involuntarily to lay my hand on some ordinary thing in that room that would tell me the truth about Dagger.
The sheets of mica in the indirect light from the kitchen felt very like Red Whitehead’s plastic-encapsulated sample sheets I’d shown Dagger to illustrate the behavior of certain organic chemicals being developed for use in the display-panel numerals of cheap microelectronic calculators which like Mylar insulation for ordinary sleeping bags are yet another spin-off from space research. Dagger uncorked another bottle and said, OK how did I know what our warm fingerprints were really doing to what I had been calling liquid crystals encapsulated in that “there” plastic sheet, but this altercation differed from the one we had toward the end of June when Dagger showed me three spools of reversal film which, when he said these were the Softball Game, called up a cylinder of unspecific cinders, my grandfather in his can which the weekend of his death in a Maine hotel I saw only the outside of — I demanded to know why the Unplaced Room and the Bonfire in Wales were not here as well, and Dagger was visibly unhappy he couldn’t divert me with his idea to shift the Softball Game to between the Hawaiian Hippie and the Suitcase Slowly Packed which we had just shot, so as to leave the Unplaced Room first — a far simpler opening, no? I asked why we had to do business with this lab; Dagger said again this was a fellow who’d give us a break.
I did not recall losing faith in Dagger, yet I had been quite capable of loosening Claire’s faith in him when on Monday over drinks at Monty’s I’d told her the only film developed had been the Bonfire — knowing that Dagger if he’d told her anything about developed footage would have mentioned the Softball Game but not the Bonfire.
Why did he never ask about the diary?
Even when I said Jenny was typing it.
I would have asked Jenny then and there the night she finished typing Hawaiian Hippie and Suitcase Slowly Packed — June 27—what she thought of my speculations on the snap so quickly shot; but she gave me the pages so glumly all I could do was look into her face and murmur, Is it Reid?
My words seemed to move Jenny’s feelings into view: she said there was no telling with Reid, they’d been all around London that day and he had said they were going to the cinema, but after they left Jane and Dudley, Reid had decided he had to split — he’d call her — and Jenny said to me that if she was being punished she’d like to know for what. But when I prolonged that question, she kissed me and went up. And on the 4th of July a week before we set sail for Corsica, Dagger said his lab man had gone on holiday to America but it mustn’t hold up, and when Cosmo who I’d never thought had a key to this flat drove me home in that three-wheeler that looks as if it would take off or tip over he asked if Aut had sold the film to TV, and the question (more interesting than I gave it credit for) passed by in my then strangely released exasperation: I said I was beginning to wonder if Dagger was ever going to get our film processed.
Would Krish have heard my gripe from Cosmo?
Could Reid have heard it from Jenny?
I had not found the film in the things of Alba’s household; I had only three tapes and they could be Stonehenge, Unplaced Room, HH, MCH — the minute hand of the bedroom clock had swept from the straight line of ten twenty round into the acute angle of ten fifty-five. I slid back the long door of the clothes cupboard and felt among neat-stacked boxes behind hanging wool and silk. Alba made a smooth bed. I was beginning to think she and Dagger had gone away. Again I tried the bathroom, stepped over the comb, reached behind some plastic bottles lined up in the window-inset — the tub had a puddle near the drain — the small plastic tub leaning against the wall under the sink was dry. That was the baby’s tub. I had forgotten all that. I remembered Lorna standing legs apart on the pebbly strand, Lorna stroking steadily out through the dark damp sea. I saw her from the boatyard where my partner was trying to buy me out. Lorna stroked beyond the children and out past the pale fat breast-stroker with thick dark hair, Lorna’s steady crawl learned in a New England lake thirty years ago was young and beautiful, and even you who have me would not have guessed that the night before at twelve thirty by my wristwatch she was demanding to know what Stonehenge had to do with “draft deserters” (from one sagging B & B single bed to another across a turquoise carpet on the second creaking floor of that B & B) and then demanded why I had not taken Jenny to Stonehenge. And I had to have something repeated by my boatyard partner, who then observed that I was distracted by the girls bathing, and when granddad the old wheelwright came up and remembered me I had to have something else repeated, being between in more ways than Reid’s with Jan and Jenny (to judge from that curious scene along the gallery street in Knightsbridge, the kisses, the bus stop, the Underground): Jan and Jenny might have in common that he was less or otherwise interested in them than they in him. I sat on the tub-edge and looked at the comb so out of character there dropped on the lino and saw in the still gloam from the kitchen down the hall the tuft sprouting in a tiny languorous arc, and wishing to reach for it I felt the slippery porcelain under my new jeans, and Dudley Allott and I, bare thighs on the tiles of Swiss Cottage pool, shared an illusion of April intimacy that I now see was also intimacy’s authentic shiver, at least for me who was between: for it was the closest he’d come since the night of his appendix forked saffron off a Jewish table into my jaws with (at differing gates and distances) Tessa, Lorna, and the pediatrician’s wife who had not then done her children’s book and who now (as I sat on Alba’s clean tub and listened to Dudley naked the last day of April) sat conversing with animation at a small party at Geoffrey Millan’s, and (as you who have me may know if you can now lay your hand on and insert a flash-forward printed-circuit cartridge heartfelt or cryptic) before the night was over I was to put in an appearance at Geoff’s party: