In dealing with these and other invasions I was holding back, I now see, not merely a tide of encroachment but also the notion that any such staying action could be only that, and would prove, in the end, unavailing. By definition, after all, the besieged have nothing more to play for than survival, and quite possibly the demands of that particular game, all the plucky, ingenious, and inconclusive stratagems to hold off ultimate depletion, are what distract us from its futility. So our way of living did not seem to me so frail that its final breach was inevitable, and I turned over in my mind, with no particular urgency, only the wisdom or practicality of this or that small refinement for its protection. I wrote a note discouraging circulars and callers and stuck it on the door. I left the neighbour’s food out, untouched, on the front step. I did not consider that perhaps a play for time was all our arrangement was or ever could be; I failed to understand that no matter what I did, by little corrosive steps one person or another would be the first to bring it to an absolute end.
Ignoring every portent, I was attuned only to what seemed significant: the watchful and desirous duet between Arthur and me. After all, it was all we needed, and was surely its own fluent justification- though no justification was owed to anyone-for the simple necessity of two, the impossibility of more than two.
27 Cardigan Avenue
Dear Ruth
The baby, Ruth. The baby in the story. What happens to the baby girl?
It’s nice having you around again. I wouldn’t say I’m relaxed about it, it takes some getting used to. DOES NOT HELP, does it, these fools popping up. I can understand why you make yourself scarce in daytime. Why WE do. I can’t avoid them altogether because of legs. Keeping curtains closed sends out the general message though.
Apart from only being around at night, you haven’t come back in what one might call the standard ways, have you? You’re not what anyone could call your average haunter. You’re not scary or tragic, not even mildly SPOOKY, to use a Della word.
In fact, you don’t seem all that deceased. You’re pretty much as you were. Practical, comfortable, always got something to do. Not saying anything-that’s the only big difference, apart from the fact that I can’t see you, not in the old way.
Though on subject of seeing and not seeing, this story. I’m getting on well with it now. I keep thinking about that baby.
What I wonder is would you have shown it to me? I mean if circumstances were otherwise, in the ordinary way? Doesn’t really matter because you have shown it to me, now. You directed me to it. And I know you’re pleased that I’m reading it.
I like this new way. I like US this way, suits us better than the old way.
More soon. I even like writing to you, now. I like writing to you when I can hear you around the place and I know you’re nearby, downstairs or in the next room or along the landing.
Arthur
It came, inevitably. It came when we felt safest, on a calm, honey-warm early September night. The doorbell rang. As was our custom, Arthur was upstairs and I was in the kitchen, just starting to think about getting his dinner. Neither of us moved. The bell rang again and went on ringing. Then came a series of bangs on the door and a man’s voice. He sounded a bit drunk.
“Hey! Can you put a light on? Come on, Arthur, I need to talk!” He pressed on the bell again, and then we heard another voice.
“Tony, leave him alone, it doesn’t matter! Tony, leave him alone!” “I’m not leaving him alone, it’s for his own good! He got a fucking invitation! Hey, Arthur!” The voice dropped to a placatory, treacherous singsong. “Come on, mate, barbie time! You gonna come and enjoy yourself or what?”
“Tony! Stop it, please-”
“Tell you what, Arthur, I got a drink right here for you. Get you in the mood, mate. Come on, s’only us and a few friendly faces, what’s your problem?”
“Oh, Tony-have some consideration!”
“Wha’s the matter? Look, Mum, does he or doesn’t he need a firm hand? I’m only doing what you said!”
“I didn’t say bully him! Leave him alone!”
The ringing and banging subsided and eventually stopped. Then the bell sounded again, tentatively, and above it came the woman’s voice again.
“Arthur, it’s me, Rosemary. Mrs. M! It’s all right, Arthur, don’t worry. He doesn’t mean any harm. It’s only Tony. Arthur? Arthur!”
He was still upstairs. The voice became wheedling. I began to tremble.
“Arthur, would you open the door a minute, dear? I’m so sorry, he didn’t mean it. He wants to say sorry. Arthur, could you please come to the door?”
The man’s voice added, “Yeah, sorry, mate, didn’t mean no offence. OK?”
Arthur didn’t stir.
“Arthur, it’s Rosemary. I can’t go till I know you’re all right.”
The man called, “OK, so how about you put a light on, Arthur? Show us you’re okay, mate. OK?”
Only a few feet lay between us and the front door. Those people were just on the other side of it. If Arthur didn’t go down to them they could burst through it and be upon us in seconds, yelling and cajoling, pulling him around. Suddenly I saw that all my efforts to protect us had been pointless. In the end, doors and locks and walls stand for nothing and against nothing. They are only the weakest of defences against any purpose, including urgent and violent goodwill.
I stood with a tea towel in my hand, straining to hear above the shunk of the washing machine behind me and the hammering of my heart in my throat. Then I heard Arthur’s tread at the top of the stairs. Without thinking about it, I knew the best way to protect him. I ran out to the conservatory and through the sliding door into the dining room. The door from there out to the hall was closed; I opened it a fraction and pressed close against the wall. Through the gap I could see the outline of Arthur’s body, halted on the stairs. Shapes moved under the porch and shadows dappled the hall floor. The woman’s voice came at us again.
“Arthur, I have your spare key here, dear. I’m coming in, all right? Just to see you’re all right. It’s just me and Tony. Tony’s with me, we just want to see you’re all right.”
I heard Arthur whimper as the lock turned. Feet clumped across the threshold, lights flashed on. They were in the hall, just out of my sight line. Arthur had slumped down on the stairs.
“Arthur? Oh, Tony didn’t mean any harm. Did you, Tony? He just wondered why you didn’t answer our invitation.”
I pushed the tea towel against my mouth to stop myself from screaming. Arthur pulled himself up and came unsteadily downstairs.
“Here you go, mate. Lager OK for you?” I heard the snap and hiss of a can. “Oops! There you go then. Get that down you. Do you good.”
Arthur cleared his throat, giving up an attempt to protest. He had his back to me and I fancy I saw him retreat from them, inclining a little in my direction, to protect me, to explain to me perhaps that he was accepting the drink just to stall them there. He had to submit to their interest in him, not so far as to encourage them to think themselves welcome, but enough to get them to leave with both neighbourly impulses, prurience and conscience, satisfied.
“Thing is,” Tony said, “Mum’s just trying to help. She’s done this whole barbecue, see? And bugger me, there’s all of us in the garden over there just trying to be friendly and you don’t turn up. Not very polite, mate.”
“Barbecue?” Arthur’s voice sounded tight with confusion. “What do I want with a barbecue? I don’t know anything about any bloody barbecue!”