A Stairway to Paradise (12 page)
‘She’s realising some assets, so as to go to India.’
‘Ah.’
‘Leaving pretty soon, as a matter of fact.’
‘Should be fun.’
‘The really funny part is, the chap who’s organised the whole thing—he’s bought an Espace, a bunch of them is doing the overland trip—this chap, one Gideon Ainsworth, turns out to be Louisa Carrington’s younger brother.’
‘You don’t say so.’
‘Yes. Fact. Pure coincidence; Barbara got to know him when she was living in Bath, last year. Never made the connection, of course, never having known Louisa’s maiden name—and even then—anyway, all was revealed after he came up to London the other day, and gave her his London number, which she called all unaware, only to find young Fergus answering the telephone— awfully disconcerting.’
‘Absolutely.’
‘Small world, eh?’
‘Come to think of it—we know Louisa’s other brother: you mightn’t remember him, if you ever met him—Alfred: wasn’t at the party; I suppose he and Lizzie were still on holiday. Yes. This Gideon must be the wanton younger brother of whom one’s heard now and then. And so—he’s going off to India, with Barbara—’
‘And some other people. Five of them all told.’
‘I see. Five Go Overland to India.’
So Barbara’s gardening friend was Alfred and Louisa’s brother. The shock—the dismay—of learning that she was indeed going away—and soon—was wonderfully mitigated by this fact: he would have a link to her: he knew someone with whom she was almost intimately connected. It was nothing much, but it was infinitely better than nothing at all. She was going away, but she was not going right away—not absolutely and altogether beyond his knowledge. It seemed almost miraculous. But—oh God—would she not let him have a word, just one word, of farewell?
Andrew was laughing. ‘As a matter of fact,’ he said, ‘this party of five consists of three chaps and two chapesses: no dog, you see. What a joke. Hope they’ve all read the books.’
Alex dimly perceived that Andrew, too, might be feeling pain, might be concealing the pain of loss: of an additional pain, an additional loss, at that. What a life it was, indeed: what a world. He was still feeling almost stunned. ‘Crazy’ he said. ‘It’s a crazy world,
mon capitaine
.’
Andrew had stopped laughing. He flicked some ash off the end of the spliff. ‘Yep,’ he said decisively. ‘It is that. Crazy, but crazy. I say—good word, that. Onomatopoeic.’
‘I don’t think that’s quite the term you want.’
‘You know what I mean.’
‘Yes. Yes.
Crazy
.’
She did give him a few words, to fill the miles, and the months, even the years—even the eternity: who knew?—which separated them. He received the telephone call late one afternoon, on his private line at the office.
‘Please don’t say anything, Alex—I just wanted to tell you—I’m going to India. Quite soon, actually. I just wanted to say—well— you know.’ She sounded quite calm and quite rational.
So did he. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Me too.’
‘I’ll tell you if ever I stop.’ Still calm; still rational.
So was he. ‘All right.’
‘And—please tell me if ever
you
stop.’
‘All right. I’ll tell you if I ever stop.’
‘I must go now, Alex. Goodbye.’
‘Yes—my—’
She rang off before he could find another word to say: she was gone again—perhaps for good—just like that. Alex sat, stunned, dazed with longing and loss and dreadful misery: until some demon in his heart raised its head and made him look—for just a moment—objectively at himself. How can this thing be happening to me, he thought: to me! Perhaps I’ve lost my mind: perhaps I’m mad.
He sat on, accustoming himself to this new state, this madness which he both felt and, by observing it, repudiated.
From then on, for a very long time, Alex mad and Alex sane continued to live together. Sometimes the one stared the other down, but they managed to coexist well enough. There was no serious conflict. But he began to see life in its entirety as an irredeemably irrational construct, and he wondered how this knowledge was to be endured for all the time that remained to him. Then he gritted his teeth, and went on playing the game, and nobody could have imagined what was in his heart.
The video diary began to appear on the television screens of the nation within ten days of Gideon’s—and his companions’— departure.
Not a word had Gideon said to anyone (other than said companions) of this project—‘Alf is absolutely
gobsmacked
,’ Lizzie told Louisa, having seized the first opportunity to telephone her sister-in-law, on the day following the screening of the first episode. It was aired—in the first instance—immediately before
Newsnight
: one could hardly have missed it.
‘Serve him bloody right!’ said Louisa. ‘I always told him Gideon would come good, but of course he refused to listen to
me
.’
‘He’ll probably get a book out of it, too,’ said Lizzie. ‘Emma’s been on the phone to me already, wanting to know if he’s agented.’
The trip unwound its by turns weary, weird and hilarious length, from the Hook of Holland to Delhi, over several successive weeks, in the course of each one of which an enthralled nation was able to watch an edited version. The sales of camper vans rocketed, and young and less-young workers the length of the country prayed for redundancy—so long as adequate compensation was in that event due. Others, already free to do so, sold everything they possessed at the nearest car-boot sale, signed off, and left (in or on a variety of vehicles, depending) immediately. It was not as if no one had ever done this journey before—far from it; it was just that, as someone observed, this particular version put the overland-to-India journey
on the map
. Twelve-year-old Janey Beaufort of Hammersmith opened a savings account—having first compared the interest rates of all those on offer—into which she henceforth deposited all but a tiny fraction of the money she earned each Saturday morning doing household chores for her mother, strictly with a view to following in Gideon and party’s footsteps (so to speak) at her earliest opportunity, and a similar scheme was formed in the mind of eight-year-old Guy Dawlish of Clapham, who fretted at some length over the relative merits of National Savings Certificates vs. the more accessible Investment Account.
It should not be supposed that either of these children, or any others, viewed the diary in its pre-
Newsnight
slot: it was repeated (by popular demand: Auntie always listens) on Sundays, just before the joint comes out of the oven. Tapeheads everywhere pored over it at their leisure, and a bootleg edition was soon in circulation.
‘You must admit,’ said Louisa in due course to Alfred, ‘that our Gideon shows remarkable qualities of leadership, and organising and management abilities of no common order. I’ll bet ICI and BP and that lot can’t wait to get their hands on him.’
‘Humph,’ said Alfred.
‘To say nothing of his diplomatic skills. The FCO will probably want him to run courses for them.’
‘Sure to,’ said Alfred, in a tone of desperate irony.
‘And by the way,’ continued Louisa relentlessly, ‘you never told me he could speak Arabic!’
‘As far as I’m concerned,’ said Alfred, ‘he can’t.’
‘Well, it seems to get the job done,’ said Louisa.
‘Uncle Gideon,’ put in Fergus, ‘is one
real
cool dude.’ And the whole nation—or that very large part of it which watched the video diary, in one time slot or another where not both—would heartily have agreed to that. It was not often that Fergus spoke for everyone, but he was entirely aware of having done so now, and savoured the moment.
Everyone
, that is, excepting his Uncle Alfred. Fergus was entirely aware of this, too. He turned to the silent dissenter. ‘Don’t you think?’ said he.
‘In a pig’s ear,’ said Alfred.
It was all over. In the very last episode, the party having reached Delhi, ownership of the Espace was transferred to four Indians, recent graduates who—now headed for postgraduate courses in the UK—were to make the same journey in reverse. They, too, had a video diary contract, and all the essential equipment. ‘We, however, have—alas—no ladies in our party,’ their leader told Gideon. ‘But you know how it is, here.’ He sighed, and smiled. ‘Too bally idiotic for words, but there you are. We grin and bear it. I say, do you know Mark Tully, by the way?’
‘Only terribly slightly,’ said Gideon.
The chapess who was not Barbara now flitted immediately away to Goa, where she may still be; one of the chaps who was not Gideon soon went, thereafter, to check out an ashram he’d heard about, and having done this much, checked rather extensively in. The remaining chap, one Charles Wesley, undiverted by either of these particular extremes, remained of the party, which now made the first of many railway reservations, and began the truly serious business of travelling over the great and most marvellous land of India, and was not much heard of for many moons thereafter.
‘Heard anything from young Gideon lately?’ said Alex to Louisa one evening early in the spring.
‘Not really lately. But you know what the Indian posts are like.’
I wish I did. Oh, God, if you knew how I wish I did.
‘The last letter I had—it was just a scrawl, really, on an aerogram—must have been about six weeks ago,’ Louisa went on. ‘Everything seems to be going well. Fallen utterly in love with the place, and so on.’
‘Is he going about on his own now, then?’
‘Oh, no. Still with the others. Barbara, that is, and Charles. I suppose it’s a lot more amusing that way.’
‘As long as they get on.’
‘I imagine they must do. Anyway, I don’t expect they’ll stay too much longer, what with the hot weather arriving.’
‘They could go up to the far north, of course. Dar-jeeling, Simla, that sort of thing.’
‘Yes,’ said Louisa vaguely, ‘that’s true. Well, bully for them. I mean, it’s quite marvellous, don’t you think? I wish I’d done it. But I will, too, one of these days.’
‘Yes,’ said Alex, ‘yes, I dare say you will.’
‘Dear Barbara, though,’ said Louisa, ‘I’m so glad she’s still with Gideon. A really
excellent
girl, don’t you think? Even Alf had to admit Gideon’d shown good judgment there.’
‘Yes,’ said Alex, ‘yes, I suppose he did.’
‘Perhaps he’s fallen in love with her by now,’ said Louisa brightly. ‘I do hope so.’
‘Or perhaps the other chap has.’
‘Charles? No, I’d really much rather Gideon did. And Gideon is better looking.’
‘Perhaps they both have.’
‘Yes, that’s more than likely. How could they not? She’s certainly rather lovely, in that old-fashioned sort of way. I thought she looked quite wonderful on the telly.’
‘Yes, I suppose she did.’
‘Well, then.’
‘Well—yes—well, we’ll see.’ Wait, and see. Oh, God, spare me this.
‘Yes, indeed! Let’s hope some more post gets through soon.’
‘Absolutely.’
Oh, God. Oh God oh God oh God. And even this is not the worst possible suffering. Alex consoled himself with this reflection; he became almost cheerful. This, now, is not the very worst. She is still—for all I know—waiting. And so am I. Mad, but hopeful. By the grace of God.
Alex and Andrew had taken to playing squash together, regularly every Tuesday night.
‘We must be mad,’ said Alex, flopping on to a bench and wiping the sweat off his face. ‘Whose bloody ridiculous idea was this?’
‘Yours, as a matter of fact.’
‘Ah. Well, then, it can’t be as bloody ridiculous as it seemed, after all. Come on, back to work.’
They played on until their time ran out, and then repaired to the nearest pub.
‘This is what it’s all about,’ said Alex, drinking cold beer.
Andrew drank silently. ‘Yes,’ said he after a while. ‘It all basically comes down to this.’
‘My round,’ said Alex, and he got up and went to the bar.
After he had returned and begun on his second pint, Andrew reached into a pocket and pulled out a preter naturally flimsy-looking sheet of paper. ‘Got a letter from young Barbara in the week,’ he said. He was staring steadily ahead, the hand holding the letter resting uncertainly on the table in front of him.
‘Oh, yes.’
‘Yes.’
‘Everything all right?’
‘Seems to be. Like to read it?’
‘Oh—no—none of my business, after all. As long as she’s all right. And the rest of them. Gideon, and whatsisname.’
‘Charles.’
‘Whoever. Still together, then?’
‘Not for much longer. Hot weather. Party’s pretty well over. Barbara’s going on to Australia.’
‘Oh, really?’
‘Yes. She met some people from Sydney who’ve asked her to stay as long as she likes—you know what these Australians are like.’
‘Open-hearted. Open-handed. Generous and hospitable.’
‘To a fault.’
‘Can one be?’
‘I suppose not. In any event, they’ve apparently got a large house, in a place called—let me see—’ he looked at the letter— ‘Balmain. She’s given me the address. She’ll be getting there round about now, actually. Then she means to find work of some sort. Waitressing, or whatever turns up.’
‘Jolly enterprising.’
‘Playing it by ear.’
‘She’ll—yes. She—what about the others? They going to Australia too?’
‘Oh, no. Charles is going to America. Gideon’s coming back here, to write his book.’
‘Ah.’
‘While he’s still hot.’
‘Yes, I see.’
‘Of course,’ said Andrew—and Alex, once again, glimpsed for a moment his friend’s predicament—‘Barbara will probably come back too, fairly soon. I mean, I imagine she’ll start to miss the old place sooner or later.’
‘You only stayed away for ten years, after all.’
‘That was different.’
‘Yes. Well—’
‘Mimi comes here quite soon. Summer hols. My turn to parent.’
‘Ah.’
‘Strange old world, isn’t it?’
‘Crazy.’
‘Yeah. Have another?’
‘No thanks, mate. I’m due at the
chez
about now.’
‘Right you are. Shall we?’
They got up and left the pub, and Andrew gave Alex a ride home: it was not far, but at even five times its length the journey might have been as silent, preoccupied as each was with his own thoughts. He’s a good sort, old Andrew, thought Alex as he walked up to his front door and let himself into the house. He’s all right, is the old Alex, thought Andrew, as he drove away. Poor bastard.