Chapter Two
WILSON tore the page carefully out of The Downhamian and pasted a thick sheet of Colonial Office notepaper on. the back of the poem. He held it up to the light: it was impossible to read the sports results on the other side of his verses. Then he folded the page carefully and put it in his pocket; there it would probably stay, but one never knew.
He had seen Scobie drive away towards the town and with beating heart and a sense of breathlessness, much the same as he had felt when stepping into the brothel, even with the same reluctance - for who wanted at any given moment to change the routine of his life? - he made his way downhill towards Scobie’s house.
He began to rehearse what he considered another man in his place would do: pick up the threads at once: kiss her quite naturally, upon the mouth if possible, say ‘I’ve missed you’, no uncertainty. But his beating heart sent out its message of fear which drowned thought.
‘It’s Wilson at last,’ Louise said. ‘I thought you’d forgotten me,’ and held out her hand. He took it like a defeat.
‘Have a drink.’
‘I was wondering whether you’d like a walk.’
‘It’s too hot, Wilson.’
‘I haven’t been up there, you know, since...’
‘Up where?’ He realized that for those who do not love time never stands still.
‘Up at the old station.’
She said vaguely with a remorseless lack of interest, ‘Oh yes ... yes, I haven’t been up there myself yet.’
‘That night when I got back,’ he could feel the awful immature flush expanding,’ I tried to write some verse.’
‘What, you, Wilson?’
He said furiously, ‘Yes, me, Wilson. Why not? And it’s been published.’
‘I wasn’t laughing. I was just surprised. Who published it?’
‘A new paper called The Circle. Of course they don’t pay much.’
‘Can I see it?’
Wilson said breathlessly, ‘I’ve got it here.’ He explained, ‘There was something on the other side I couldn’t stand. It was just too modern for me.’ He watched her with hungry embarrassment.
‘It’s quite pretty,’ she said weakly.
‘You see the initials?’
‘I’ve never had a poem dedicated to me before.’
Wilson felt sick; he wanted to sit down. Why, he wondered, does one ever begin this humiliating process: why does one imagine that one is in love? He had read somewhere that love had been invented in the eleventh century by the troubadours. Why had they not left us with lust? He said with hopeless venom, ‘I love you.’ He thought: it’s a lie, the word means nothing off the printed page. He waited for her laughter.
‘Oh, no, Wilson,’ she said, ‘no. You don’t. It’s just Coast fever.’
He plunged blindly, ‘More than anything in the world.’
She said gently, ‘No one loves like that, Wilson.’
He walked restlessly up and down, his shorts flapping, waving the bit of paper from The Downhamian. ‘You ought to believe in love. You’re a Catholic. Didn’t God love the world?’
‘Oh yes,’ she said, ‘He’s capable of it But not many of us are.’
‘You love your husband. You told me so. And it’s brought you back.’
Louise said sadly, ‘I suppose I do. All I can. But it’s not the kind of love you want to imagine you feel. No poisoned chalices, eternal doom, black sails. We don’t die for love, Wilson - except, of course, in books. And sometimes a boy play-acting. Don’t let’s play-act, Wilson - it’s no fun at our age.’
‘I’m not play-acting,’ he said with a fury in which he could hear too easily the histrionic accent. He confronted her bookcase as though it were a witness she had forgotten. ‘Do they play-act?’
‘Not much,’ she said. ‘That’s why I like them better than your poets.’
‘All the same you came back.’ His face lit up with wicked inspiration. ‘Or was that just jealousy?’
She said, ‘Jealousy? What on earth have I got to be jealous about?’
‘They’ve been careful,’ Wilson said, ‘but not as careful as all that.’
‘I don’t know what you are talking about.’
‘Your Ticki and Helen Rolt.’
Louise struck at his cheek and missing got his nose, which began to bleed copiously. She said, ‘That’s for calling him Ticki. Nobody’s going to do that except me. You know he hates it. Here, take my handkerchief if you haven’t got one of your own.’
Wilson said, ‘I bleed awfully easily. Do you mind if I lie on my back?’ He stretched himself on the floor between the table and the meat safe, among the ants. First there had been Scobie watching his tears at Pende, and now - this.
‘You wouldn’t like me to put a key down your back?’ Louise asked.
‘No. No thank you.’ The blood had stained the Downhamian page.
‘I really am sorry. I’ve got a vile temper. This will cure you, Wilson.’ But if romance is what one lives by, one must never be cured of it. The world has too many spoilt priests of this faith or that: better surely to pretend a belief than wander in that vicious vacuum of cruelty and despair. He said obstinately, ‘Nothing will cure me, Louise. I love you. Nothing,’ bleeding into her handkerchief.
‘How strange,’ she said, ‘it would be if it were true.’
He grunted a query from the ground.
‘I mean,’ she explained, ‘if you were one of those people who really love. I thought Henry was. It would be strange if really it was you all the time.’ He felt an odd fear that after all he was going to be accepted at his own valuation, rather as a minor staff officer might feel during a rout when he finds that his claim to know the handling of the tanks will be accepted. It is too late to admit that he knows nothing but what he has read in the technical journals - ‘O lyric love, half angel and half bird.’ Bleeding into the handkerchief, he formed his lips carefully round a generous phrase, ‘I expect he loves - in his way.’
‘Who?’ Louise said. ‘Me? This Helen Rolt you are talking about? Or just himself?’
‘I shouldn’t have said that.’
‘Isn’t it true? Let’s have a bit of truth, Wilson. You don’t know how tired I am of comforting lies. Is she beautiful?’
‘Oh no, no. Nothing of that sort.’
‘She’s young, of course, and I’m middle-aged. But surely she’s a bit worn after what she’s been through.’
‘She’s very worn.’
‘But she’s not a Catholic. She’s lucky. She’s free, Wilson.’
Wilson sat up against the leg of the table. He said with genuine passion, ‘I wish to God you wouldn’t call me Wilson.’
‘Edward. Eddie. Ted. Teddy.’
‘I’m bleeding again,’ he said dismally and lay back on the floor.
‘What do you know about it all, Teddie?’
‘I think I’d rather be Edward. Louise, I’ve seen him come away from her hut at two in the morning. He was up there yesterday afternoon.’
‘He was at confession.’
‘Harris saw him.’
‘You’re certainly watching him.’
‘It’s my belief Yusef is using him.’
‘That’s fantastic. You’re going too far.’
She stood over him as though he were a corpse: the bloodstained handkerchief lay in his palm. They neither of them heard the car stop or the footsteps up to the threshold. It was strange to both of them, hearing a third voice from an outside world speaking into this room which had become as close and intimate and airless as a vault. ‘Is anything wrong?’ Scobie’s voice asked.
‘It’s just...’ Louise said and made a gesture of bewilderment - as though she were saying: where does one start explaining? Wilson scrambled to his feet and at once his nose began to bleed.
‘Here,’ Scobie said and taking out his bundle of keys dropped them inside Wilson’s shirt collar. ‘You’ll see,’ he said, ‘the old-fashioned remedies are always best,’ and sure enough the bleeding did stop within a few seconds. ‘You should never lie on your back,’ Scobie went reasonably on. ‘Seconds use a sponge of cold water, and you certainly look as though you’d been in a fight, Wilson.’