Passing On (26 page)

people. They’re so pretentious. I mean, almos’ everybody I know is pretentious. Edward jus’ doesn’t bother.’

‘I see what you mean,’ said Helen. The desolation was ebbing a little, like a fever, but she didn’t feel up to a considered review of Edward’s character.

‘I don’ mean you’re pretentious,’ Phil continued solicitously. ‘I mean almos’ everybody else excep’ you. You’re pretty much like Edward.’

‘I’m glad to hear it.’ It was time, she decided, to wrench the conversation in a different direction. ‘Are you … do you feel you’re anywhere nearer … getting yourself together? Since you’ve been here.’

Phil gave her a look in which injury and dignity combined.

‘Takes time, dunnit? I mean, if it’s psychological.’

‘I suppose so,’ said Helen meekly.

Edward was having difficulties with chronology. He slept so badly that he moved around in a continuous grey fog of weariness.

He never knew where he was within the day. Sometimes he found that he had lost his way within the year also. He would surface from his churning thoughts and look blankly at the world: what date was it? What month? He had to turn his eyes to the window and learn whereabouts he was from the state of the vegetation beyond: high, straggling growth, leaves tinged with yellow — early September. He realised that he was probably unwell in some way, but it did not seem to be a state of ill health about which anything could be done; you could not go to the doctor and say that you didn’t know what season it was. He seldom left the house, except to visit the Britches. The previous week he had been out with the ornithological society; the bird watching had been therapeutic but he had found the company disturbing. It was preferable, on the whole, to be alone. Helen did not count, really. Phil’s arrival had been briefly disconcerting, but he was easily ignored. After a few days Edward ceased to notice him. He was not noticing much except his own grinding needs.

‘I thought I’d get a bus to Spaxton,’ said Phil. ‘Get myself some new tapes. All right with you?’

They were having breakfast. The back door was open on to a golden morning; the garden glowed; the hedge was white-veiled with spiders’ webs; a robin sang piercingly from the apple tree.

‘S’a nice day,’ Phil continued breezily. He embarked on his third piece of toast. Helen glanced at him in surprise; one would not have expected sensitivity to the physical world to come high on Phil’s list of responses.

‘What’s that bird singing, Edward?’

It’s a robin,’ said Edward after a moment.

Phil smiled benignly. ‘S’ nice. Well, I’ll push off, then. See you later.’

He rose, and at the same moment they all heard footsteps on the garden path. Edward was drinking tea; he put the cup down with a slight crash. Gary Paget appeared at the door. He simply stood there, as was his custom, awaiting instructions. Helen, with an effort, concentrated her attention on the matter in hand and told him which bit of the vegetable garden he should dig.

Gary and Phil looked straight through each other, like dogs whose territories have embarrassingly overlapped. Helen was aware, as she talked, of the violent contrast between them. Gary, two years younger than Phil, appeared to come from another decade — another century, even. Seen together like this, both seemed to be wearing fancy dress. Gary, in his baggy brown cord trousers and open-necked cotton shirt, with his thatch of corn-coloured hair and well-scrubbed face, looked like some Youth Hostelling hiker on a railway poster of the thirties. Phil, in skin-tight black leather glinting with metal chains and zips, his hair shaved pp the scalp at either side and rising to a green crest at the top, his eye-sockets perfunctorily daubed with rainbow colours, recalled an operatic demon. They appeared not to see each other at all. Phil said ‘Cheers, then,’ and departed. Gary stumped away to the vegetable garden.

Helen had decided to redecorate the bathroom; activity was the thing. She brought up a bucket and some sugar soap and set about washing down the walls. Obstructed by the bathroom cabinet, she took it down. Within was a welter of half-empty pill bottles with obscure labels, all of them Dorothy’s, and sundry ancient packets of aspirin or indigestion tablets; neither she nor Edward resorted much to medication. The whole thing should be turned out, but could wait. She scrubbed the wall energetically, creating great pale swathes down which trickled rusty water. She thought of nothing at all, lost in this satisfactory redemptive action. When she paused for a moment she could hear through the open window that robin, and the intermittent thwack of Gary’s spade.

When she had cleaned a whole wall she ran out of sugar soap and went to search for more. As she rummaged in the scullery cupboard she heard Edward come downstairs with an odd hesitant step. She said ‘Edward?’ but he did not, apparently, hear. He crossed the hall into the sitting-room; Helen heard him opening the french windows.

Unsuccessful in her search, she went into the kitchen. She looked into the garden; there was no sign of Edward; he, too, must be standing at the window. Gary’s spade could be heard now only spasmodically; several times it ceased altogether as he took a lengthy breather. The enthusiasm with which Gary worked depended on how closely he thought himself to be observed.

Edward appeared suddenly on the lawn. He stood there for a moment. Helen expected him to head for the Britches. Instead, he began to walk slowly towards the gap in the hedge that led to the kitchen garden. Helen watched him; she felt a little creep of mistrust. Why?

Edward vanished through the gap. The spade sounds were resumed and then ceased. There was silence. A long silence, it seemed, overlaid by blackbird song, shrill and metallic. And then Gary came through the gap, empty-handed, walking fast, putting on his anorak as he went. Helen froze. It was ten to eleven; Gary should not be leaving until twelve. She heard the click as he closed the garden gate and then the whirr of his bicycle. And then Edward walked slowly through the gap and across the lawn towards the house.

She met him in the hall. She said, ‘Why has Gary gone?’

He stared at her. ‘I don’t know.’

Her heart was thumping, she noticed. Bang bang. Bang wallop. ‘You’ll have to tell me, Edward. What happened?’

And his face contorted. He turned away. He muttered something.

She couldn’t hear.

She pulled him into the kitchen, pushed him into a chair. He sat there at the table with his head in his hands. She sat down opposite. And saw that he was crying. Trying not to cry. She thought: I cannot endure this. I have borne a good deal in my time, but this is beyond all of it. 0 God, what sort of swine are you?

‘Please tell me. It’s better if you do.’

‘I touched him,’ said Edward.

There was a long silence.

‘Just that?’

He nodded.

Helen got up. She put the kettle on, waited for it to boil, made tea, poured it for them both. Then she sat down again. All this while Edward remained silent. Tam wandered into the room, pushed his food bowl around noisily and then leaned against Edward’s leg in sycophantic appeal. Edward put a hand on his head.

‘What will happen?’ said Edward at last.

‘I don’t know. I should think Gary may tell his horrible dad.’

She saw Edward flinch.

‘Don’t answer the phone,’ said Helen. ‘Don’t go down to the village for a day or two. I’ll deal with Ron Paget, if it’s necessary.’

Edward raised his head. ‘No. I did this, not you.’

‘Yes. But you must let me, all the same. I’m better at Ron Paget than you are. And it may not come to that. Nothing may happen at all. More importantly …’ She stopped.

Edward looked directly at her. ‘More importantly what?’ His voice was bleak.

More importantly, what is to be done about you? Now and forever. How are you to be got through whatever it is that is going on within?

‘I’ve always known, you know.’

‘Yes,’ said Edward. ‘I realised you did.’

They sat in silence, not looking at one another. Helen thought

of Gary Paget, and winced. Edward, as though she had spoken aloud, suddenly put his head in his hands and groaned. ‘Oh God, that boy. .

Helen reached for the teapot. She refilled both their cups.

‘There’s nothing you can do about him. And I doubt if he’s been done any irreparable harm, if what you say happened is what did happen.’

‘It is,’ said Edward dully. ‘That was all.’

‘Then Gary will recover, I daresay.’

But you may not, she thought. And I cannot help. She would have liked to walk round the table and put her arms about him, and knew that this would not do. Edward shrank from physical contact. Even Louise had learned, long ago, to keep her hands off him.

The hall clock thrummed, and then struck eleven. The last note came out as a strangled clunk, owing to some fault in the mechanism; it had been like that for ten years now. Helen, awaiting the sound with maddened fatalism, thought suddenly that it symbolised everything that was wrong at Greystones. She determined, wildly and too late, to get something done about the wretched thing. From outside came the sound of a passing car and children shouting. And out there, she thought, are thousands — hundreds of thousands — of people like Edward who live in perfect tranquillity with their natures, at least in so far as any of us do. Who are neither guilty nor lonely, or no more than the rest of us. It is not fair. It is deeply and profoundly unfair. Why Edward? Why harmless Edward, when people like Ron Paget walk the earth unscathed? Ron Paget, and muggers and rapists and child batterers and swindlers and drug pedlars and corrupt politicians. Villains are going their way unhindered the world over, and the axe has to fall on Edward.

The phone rang. Both Glovers froze. Edward looked at Helen; his face was a pasty grey colour. He rose. No,’ she said. She went out into the hall and lifted the receiver.

‘What on earth are you doing?’ said Louise. ‘I was just going to give up. Is he all right?’

‘All right? Who?’

‘Phil, for heaven’s sake. I don’t want to talk to him, I’m not

geared up for that yet. I just want to know he’s O.K. Helen? Are you still there?’

‘Yes, I’m here. Phil seems fine. He’s gone to Spaxton.’

‘Spaxton?’ cried Louise suspiciously. ‘Whatever for?’

‘He wanted to buy something. Tapes.’

‘Oh. Well, let me know when he’s back, will you. Are you sure there’s nothing wrong? You sound funny.’

Edward came out of the kitchen. Helen put her hand over the mouthpiece and said, ‘It’s Louise.’ Edward looked at her without expression. Then he walked over to the front door and opened it. Helen said ‘Where are you going?’ Edward hesitated: ‘I don’t know.’

Louise was quacking inaudibly. ‘I’ve got to go,’ Helen said to her. She put the receiver down. ‘Don’t go out, Edward. Not just for the moment.’ As soon as she had spoken she regretted it; of course Edward had to go out — now or tomorrow or sometime.

She waited for her mother to say ‘He’s made his bed and he’s got to lie on it,’ or words to that effect. But Dorothy was curiously absent today.

‘I don’t mean don’t go out,’ she amended. ‘I mean if you see Ron Paget just don’t get involved.’

Edward stood for a moment, irresolute. He said nothing and seemed barely aware of her. Then he turned and headed up the stairs. She heard the door of his room close. Tam also went up, and sat outside, whining. The door did not open.

‘I bought something for you,’ said Phil. ‘It’s a present.’ He stood by the kitchen sink, grinning complacently. On the draining board stood a chrysanthemum in a pot, partially shrouded in a tube of white paper. ‘S’a flower,’ Phil explained, lie delved in the pocket of his jacket and produced a small box of Cadbury’s Dairy Milk chocolates: ‘That’s for Edward.’

Helen felt, for a few seconds, dangerously close to tears. She swallowed, blinked, and said ‘Thanks very much, Phil. That’s very nice of you. Edward will like those.’

Phil continued to smirk. He gave the chrysanthemum a proprietorial prod: ‘You got to give it water sometimes, she said.’

‘Yes. I won’t forget. By the way, I think you should give Louise a ring. She called this morning, wondering how you were.’

‘Will do,’ said Phil dismissively. He sat down. ‘Where’s Edward? Isn’ it time for supper?’

‘I’m afraid it’s just soup and cheese tonight. I haven’t got round to cooking anything. Perhaps you’d like to go up and tell Edward.

He’s in his room.’

‘Will do.’

After a minute Phil came clumping down the stairs again. ‘He says he don’ wan’ anything to eat. He’s got a bit of a headache. I gave him the chocolates. I should think he’d eat those.’ Wearing a benign expression, Phil picked up a spoon and began to slurp tinned tomato soup with relish. ‘S’ good, this. You had a nice day, Helen?’

She murmured something noncommittal. Phil continued to radiate wellbeing. ‘I been lookin’ round Spaxton. S’a funny little place, innit? I mean, it’s got really stupid shops and there’s nowhere you could hang out with your friends, but you can’t help quite liking it. But I should think people would get pissed off if they got to live there.’

Helen said, with an effort, ‘Actually it’s rather sought after.

People retire to it, or commute to London from it.’

‘I mean people like me,’ said Phil kindly. ‘All right if I have some more soup, Helen? Anyway, I seen Spaxton now so I don’ need to go there again. There’s mos’ly rubbish there but I got myself some tapes. So tomorrow I won’ be busy an’ I thought I’d help you here. Do things for you.’ He beamed graciously.

‘Oh,’ said Helen, startled into response. ‘I don’t know really that … I mean, I can’t think of anything that needs doing.’

Phil looked hurt. ‘Mum’s always on at me about doing things for her. Never stops. It’s a real pain. That’s one of the reasons I got pissed off and come here. But you an’ Edward don’ go on at people. You’re not bothered. Anyway, it’s partly my house, innit, so I ought to do things, right? I could paint this room,’ he continued with enthusiasm. ‘I like painting. An’ it’s a bit of a mess, innit?’

‘Well,’ Helen replied hastily, ‘I’m not sure … We’d have to

think about that. I’d need to talk to Edward. Maybe… Perhaps you could cut the lawn. I was thinking the other day that it badly needs doing. The old mower’s in the garden shed.’