She turned to me. “What did I tell you. I said he’d bring that up sooner or later.”
I made such a good spectator my neck was turning to rubber. If I could write a book, I thought, I’d put him in it, and make sure he died by the end. “Leave me out of it,” I said.
“I did make you come,” he said, “when I tried the other place, because you said that was what you wanted. You cried for an hour afterwards, out of guilt and the fact that you enjoyed it so much, and only stopped when I made you a cup of cocoa.”
“Scratch an Englishman,” she smirked, “and you find a Turk. We all know how true that is, don’t we?”
“Oh yes,” Blaskin smoothed the top of his head, as if the old scar itched from the grains of sugar, “people have been know to say I had a touch of the tarboosh!”
I admired her dignified restraint on saying: “It’s a mistake, Gilbert, to imagine you can get to know yourself through sexual promiscuity. That sort of thing is only for the beasts. Not that I think you have a real self, though if you did I wouldn’t like to know you. You’d probably be far worse than you are now.”
He took a propelling pencil and a miniature notebook from his dressing gown pocket. “Wonderful! Go on, my usually taciturn victim. Tell me more. It’ll fit very well into kickstarting a part of my novel.”
She arched her back to get full height. “I’m not a victim.”
“You are sometimes,” he said moodily. “And then, how victims strike harder when they do!”
“You have an ideal relationship,” I said, though my irony was, for the moment anyway, beyond them. “It’s like Darby and Joan.”
“Or Punch and Judy,” she said.
“Call it Box and Cox,” Blaskin broke in. “But she’s a difficult woman, Michael. She could only love a man if he satisfied her unfulfilled romantic yearnings, and I can’t do it because I never had anyone to practice on for when I met her.” He put a hand to his brow to simulate despair. “Oh God, but I’ve done my best to bring her to life.”
I gave Mabel high marks for self-possession when she said: “Please, Gilbert, I wish you wouldn’t talk in that way. I really can’t think you mean all you say. I’m sure you don’t mean it. You should be more dignified, and take yourself seriously.”
More than six feet tall, he stood against the hangings of the high windows, and put a hand into his breast pocket. “Whoever takes themselves seriously should never have been born, especially a novelist. Oh dear, why didn’t I save that for the thesis girl? What was it I said, Michael? I’ve forgotten already.”
I told him. He was eternally spouting cracker mottoes, though I kept the observation to myself. If I’d said a tenth as many hard words to Frances as he diatribed to Mabel I would have been booted out long ago, and quite right. Perhaps they carried on in such a way only to entertain their guests, and had rehearsed this session during the night for my benefit.
“Michael,” he said, “I can’t stand this life anymore. She’s killing me. The only relief is when I put in some work on my book, unless she’s thrown out what I’ve done so far into the Serpentine. It wouldn’t be the first time.”
“Everything to do with your work is precious to me,” she said. “You know that by now.”
“Then where’s the handwritten manuscript of No Poppies in Eritrea, my first book of poems as a young subaltern? I was looking for it last week, to drool over how good I was in my younger days.”
“I remember you taking it to Bertram Rota when you were out of funds.”
“Hell’s bells and buckets of Flanders blood! You don’t say? I can’t believe it.”
“I saw you put it under your coat.”
“What about my essays A State of Rage? And the novel I wrote under the name of Sidney Blood The Ogres’ Orgy? And Sonnets From Burnt Oak? I got the Wurlitzer Prize for that. I haven’t seen them anywhere.”
Her expression was sinister. “Gone. All gone. You sold them all.”
“What, even The Secret Journal of the Ladies of Llangollen?”
“That too.”
He clutched his head. “My heart’s breaking. I’m losing my grip on life, and you’re no help.” He turned to me. “She’s lying. She was probably drooling over the last one. You can never get the truth out of someone who’s trying to kill you.”
“I’m only doing it as your muse,” she said, “to encourage you. You can’t complain about that.”
“Let’s go into my study, Michael,” he said. “I’d rather hear what you’ve come to tell me.”
We left Mabel humming to herself and clearing up the detritus from the tray. His study was the largest room of the flat, all available wall space fitted with mahogany bookshelves from floor to ceiling, except for one section where a framed chart — at which I looked with fascinated concern — depicted the ages at which every great writer of the past had died, from Antiquity to Sidney Blood and Gilbert Blaskin.
“It was done by Mabel,” he said. “Her only work of art. She’s waiting to take it out of the glass and lovingly write in of my demise.” He turned it to the wall. “I took it to the dustbin some time ago but she brought it back. She swabs it clean of tobacco smoke every morning.”
“What a way to live.” I sat in the armchair, while he lay on the sofa staring at papers stacked on his desk, waiting for the will to go across and start work. “What are you writing these days?”
“I wish I could tell you. Two hundred pages done, and I don’t know what it’s about.”
“Does it matter?”
“Not to my readers, but to me it does.” He opened a large wooden cigar box and gave me a tube. “Light up. It won’t kill you. I’ve been hoping they will me for years, but nothing does, as long as I go on working. I survived the war, except for a scratch or two, and am too old to die young, so God can fornicate with Himself. There’s nothing like a good cigar after coffee, except brandy perhaps. And so, my only begotten son, and bastard that you are, what can I do for you?”
“I’m not a bastard. Not that I mind, but you did marry my mother. Or are you a victim of Alzheimer’s already?”
“How can I forget her?” He went to the desk, and tapped out a word. “It’s a few years since I met her. Did she go back to that commune in Turkey?”
“The last time I heard, she was in Nottingham.”
“Ah! What a divine place!” He blew a perfect smoke ring at the ceiling. “That’s where we fell in love. I was walking by the Council House one afternoon, and she came towards me, but instead of passing by she took my arm, as bold as brass. ‘Tommy,’ she said — I was a Second Lieutenant, but it meant nothing to her — ‘I like you. Let’s go into Yates’s and have a drink.’ We fell madly in love, even before we got to our second glass. What black passion! There’s no love like the first, Michael, and the first is always the last.”
“And I was the result?”
“You were, my boy. You were born after I left. I was already in North Africa. But I never forgot Nottingham and your cavalier young mother. She would lead me into that little grubby house and, whenever there was time, and there always was, we’d go at it even before she got out of her overalls. The more she reeked of disinfectant from the factory the more I liked it. Life hasn’t been the same since, except in my novels.”
“It’s so long ago, though.” I thought about my early affairs in Nottingham, when I’d had spiky Claudine Forks, and shafted Gwen Bolsover who I hoped was also pregnant when I left. “I’m surprised you remember it.”
“All the past is like yesterday,” he said, “no matter how far off it seems.”
“Have you written about the time with my mother?”