The Nice and the Good (36 page)

It was dark in his bedroom but there was a light on in the bathroom and he went straight in there without turning on any lamps. He undressed quickly, trying not to see himself in the mirror. The intense desire for sleep, for oblivion, came to him with a physical reminiscence of times of unhappiness in his childhood. What a mess, thought Ducane, what a Christ awful mess. But sleep now, sleep, sleep. He buttoned his pyjamas and emerged into his bedroom, switching the lights on. As he approached his bed he saw that there was already somebody in it.

“I thought you were never coming up!” said Judy McGrath.

“I
T’S
only little Judy.”

Judy McGrath had thrust the blankets back and reposed, propped up on one arm. She was naked. She moved over and patted the white surface of the bed invitingly. “You were such a long time, I dozed off.”

Ducane saw her body through a sort of haze. The lamps seemed to be giving very little light. Or perhaps he was just very tired. He took his black silk dressing gown off a chair and put it on. He said, “Did you come with Biranne?”

“What, Mr Honey?”

“Did you come with Biranne?”

“No, I just came with my own self. The back door was open and I walked in. I soon guessed which was your room. Don’t be cross with me, Mr Honey.”

It must be some sort of plot, thought Ducane. He said, “Where’s your husband with his little camera?” As he used the word ‘little’ he was aware that he was imitating not only Biranne’s words but even Biranne’s voice.

“I wouldn’t do anything like that to you, Mr Honey. This is for free. I love you.”

“I doubt if you know much about love, Judy.”

“You can’t say that to anybody, Mr Honey.”

She’s right, thought Ducane. He swayed a little and then sat down in a chair. He realised that he had drunk a lot of whisky. He realised that he wanted to drink some more.

“You’d better go, Judy. Come on, put your clothes on.”

“Why such a hurry, Mr H?”

“Because I’m dead tired and I want to go to bed and I can’t go to bed while you’re in it. Come on, Judy.”

“You could lie beside me, Mr Honey. I wouldn’t so much as touch you the whole night through.”

“Don’t be silly, girl.”

“Have a drink, Mr Honey. A little drinkie. I brought some with me. Just for good fellowship.”

Ducane saw that Judy had placed a leather flask and two glasses on the table beside the bed. He watched while she
rolled over on her front and poured a little whisky into each glass. She rearranged herself, reclining on her side, and held out a glass towards him.

The movement disturbed Ducane intensely. Judy, seen in the haze of the room, which cast a sort of silver-gilt shadow over her long body, had seemed like something in a picture. Possibly she had actually reminded him of some picture by Goya or Velazquez. But that rolling movement with its awkwardness, its glimpse of buttocks, the grotesque bracing of her knees, momentarily wide apart, brought with it the pathetic ugliness of real flesh and also its attractiveness.

Ducane found that he had leaned forward and accepted the glass of whisky.

“That’s right, Mr Honeyman. Now we can talk. Just a little talk and then I promise I’ll go. We’re getting to know each other, aren’t we? Isn’t that nice?”

“I wouldn’t call it nice exactly,” said Ducane. “Whatever it is, nice is not the word.”

“Cheers, mister.”

“Cheers, Judy.”

“Now what shall we talk about? Let’s talk about us.” She stretched luxuriously, pointing her toes and lengthening out her mouth and eyes. Her shoulders twitched. Dappled shadows moved over her contracted stomach. Then she relaxed again.

“How did you get tied up with that devil McGrath?” asked Ducane. He was looking into his glass, but he could see the dark haze of her blue-black hair which seemed to move like a form upon golden waters.

“I was very young, Mr Honey. And he was somebody. I knew I could only marry a man who was somebody. He could make something of himself, Peter could. He’s bright.”

“Bright, yes. And he’s made something of himself all right. He’s made himself into a pretty promising crook, and he’s made you into one too.”

“Do you think I ought to leave him, Mr Honey?”

“No, of course not,” said Ducane with exasperation. He forced himself to look at her. He tried to concentrate upon those very clear North Sea eyes. He apprehended that her face was not really dark but radiant, almost pale, beneath its shadowy honey-golden surface colour. Her body extended
in a long gilded blur. Goya, Velazquez, aid me, he prayed. “I think you ought to persuade him to mend his ways before he lands both of you in prison. You wouldn’t like it at all in prison, Judy.” Oh God, I want to hurt her, he thought. Let her go away, just let her go away.

“I’ve got to leave him, Mr Honeyman, there isn’t any other way. You know that. You know I can’t make Peter change. I’ve got to leave him, Mr Honeyman, and you’ve got to help me.” Her voice grew softer, coaxing.

Ducane stared into the supplicating blue eyes. Let me drown, he thought, so long as I see nothing else, feel nothing else. He said, “I’m afraid I can’t help you, Judy. I’ve given you my advice. And now—”

“You can help me. Only you can help me. Only you can really save me, Mr Honey.”

“Would you please stop calling me by that ridiculous name!” said Ducane. He turned his head stiffly, robot-like, and looked at the bathroom door.

“All right—dear—John.”

Ducane stood up. “Now would you kindly get out?” He turned his back to her.

“In a minute, John, in a minute. Don’t be cross with me. I know I’ve done wrong things and it wasn’t all Peter’s fault. Even before I met Peter I was—you know—with men. It just seemed natural. But I feel so different since I met you. You’re the first man who—you’re so different and good. You could save me, Mr John, and no one else could do it. I wouldn’t ask anything except to know you and see you now and then, and you’d talk to me of things. You could make a difference to my whole life. And I’d do anything you liked, I’d learn something, anything. I’d become a, I don’t know, a
nurse
—”

Ducane uttered a sound which might have been a laugh or might have been an exclamation of disgust. He was not sure himself which it was.

“Save me, John, sweetheart, help me. It’s such a little thing for you, and such a big thing for me. You said yourself that if I stayed with Peter I’d end up in prison.”

“I didn’t actually,” said Ducane. “But never mind. Put your clothes on.”

“In a little minute, honey, John. John, you don’t know
what it’s like for a woman to be in despair. I’m afraid of Peter. I’ve no one to turn to. I haven’t any friends and I only know men who are bad. People like you are safe. You’re grand and everyone respects you and you have real friends. You can’t sort of fall out of the bottom of the world. I’ll have to leave Peter, I’ve just got to, and what will become of me then? Won’t you be a friend to me, John, that’s all I ask. Say you’ll look after me a little, say you’ll see me again, please say you’ll see me again, just that little thing, please.”

There was a whining edge to her voice. I mustn’t pity her, thought Ducane. She thinks she’s serious but she isn’t. She would do me harm. I would do her harm. Do I see her as damned then? What does it matter what I see her as? I can do nothing for her. “I can do nothing for you,” he said in a dull voice.

There was a silence. Judy said, “I’m so tired. I’ll go soon.” She gave a little groan and turned over on her face.

Ducane moved slowly round and regarded her. She lay prone, her face plunged into the pillow. With a sudden intensity of concentration he looked at her body, giving it the attention which he might have given, in some picture gallery far from home, to a masterpiece which he might never see again. Only this was not the gaze of contemplation.

Ducane allowed himself to realise his strong directed excitement. In fantasy he laid his hand down, very gently, upon the golden neck, beneath the dry crisp pile of dark hair, upon that particular hillock of the spine, and drew it very slowly downward, over the velvety hump of the shoulder, into the hollow of the back, which would move and shudder a little, along the glossy curve of the hip and then, more slowly still, over the firm strokeable rise of the buttock and on to the back of the thigh, which Ducane saw, as he moved now noiselessly closer to the bed, to be covered with a fleece of golden hair.

Suppose I were to fuck her? Ducane said to himself. This was a word which he never normally used, even in his thoughts, and its sudden occurrence now excited and shocked him. The word came again with the voice of Richard Biranne. Biranne had used the word, he felt sure, some time
in their discussion. Well, suppose he were to? Ducane put his glass down very silently upon the bedside table. The girl was lying quite still, her face invisible, her breathing just perceptible in the faintest regular pressure upon the white sheet beneath her shadowed side. She might be asleep. Ducane’s fantasy fingers stroked her body with a feathery creative touch, the light light touch of passion which conjures forth, to the last caressed detail, a presence of flesh. He leaned over her.

A faint smell arose from Judy’s body. It was a not unpleasant smell, mingled of sweat and cosmetics. Ducane looked down between Judy’s shoulder-blades. He saw a grey tumbled heap of dead pigeons. He opened his mouth and devoured the smell of Judy. He felt again the onrush of Luciferian lightness, and saw in Radeechy’s handwriting, written across Judy’s bare golden shoulders, the message
Do what thou wilt shall be the whole of law
.

At the same time Ducane felt perfectly cold. A cold watcher within him saw the scene and knew that he would not even with the most diffident or momentary gesture lay his hand upon the satiny golden back of Judy McGrath. He thought, she knows I will not touch her. She knows I will not, perhaps she conjectures I cannot. He put his hand down holding himself instead, restraining and comforting that which so much wanted Judy.

I am the perfect whited sepulchre, Ducane thought. I’ve fiddled and compromised with two women and been a failure with one and a catastrophe to the other. I am the cause that evil is in a man like McGrath. I cannot pity the wretched or bring hope or comfort to the damned. I cannot feel compassion for those over whom I imagine myself to be set as a judge. I cannot even take this girl in my arms. And that not because of duty or for her sake at all, but just because of my own conception of myself as spotless: my quaint idea of myself as good, which seems to go on being with me, however rottenly I may behave.

“Get up, Judy,” said Ducane in a gentle voice, turning away from the bed. “Get up, child. Put your clothes on. Time to go home.” He looked about the room. A white feathery heap lay beside one of the chairs. Judy’s summer dress, patterned with green and blue flowers, hung over the
back of the chair. Ducane picked up the pile of soft slithery perfumed underwear and hurled it on to the bed. Judy turned over and groaned.

“I’m going into the bathroom,” said Ducane. “
Get dressed
.”

He went into the bathroom and locked the door. He used the lavatory. He sleeked back the thick locks of his dark hair and looked closely at his face in the mirror. His face was brown, shiny, oily. His eyes seemed to bulge and stare. He put out his tongue, large and spade-like. He could hear movements in the bedroom. There was a soft tap upon the door.

“I’m ready now,” said Judy. She was dressed. The wisp of blue and green dress fitted her closely, sleekly. Her breasts, thought Ducane, oh her breasts. I might have touched them just for a moment. And he thought, how pretty she is with her clothes on. It was as if he had made love to her and now felt a calmer and more tender renewal of passion at seeing his mistress clothed.

He moved quickly past her and opened the bedroom door.

There was a quick flurry on the landing and Fivey retreated as far as the head of the stairs, hesitated, and then turned to face Ducane in the half light. Fivey, dressed in black trousers and a white shirt, looked like the leader of some Balkan revolution. He stood, a little self-consciously defiant, his huge head thrown back, his fingers slowly exploring one of his moustaches.

Ducane said, almost shouting now, “Fivey, how absolutely splendid, I’m so glad to see you’re still up. You can get out the car and take this young lady home.”

“Oh, but—” said Judy, shrinking back again into the room.

“Come on, out you go,” said Ducane. Without touching her he walked round behind her and half ushered half shooed her out through the open door. He turned on the lights on the landing.

“Goodnight,” said Ducane. “My man will drive you home. Go along, Fivey, go and get the car. Mrs McGrath will wait for you at the front door.”

“Very good, Sir,” said Fivey. With an air of nobility he descended the stairs.

“Go on down,” said Ducane to Judy. “I won’t come with you. Wait for Fivey at the door. He won’t be a moment. Goodnight.”

“You’re not cross with me? You’ll see me again? Please?”

“Goodnight, my child, goodnight,” said Ducane, gesturing towards the stairs.

She passed him slowly and went on down. A minute later he heard the sound of the car and the closing of the front door.

Ducane went back into his bedroom and shut the door and locked it. He stood for a moment blankly. Then he lowered himself carefully on to the floor and lay there face downward with his eyes closed.

“I
SN’T
it funny to think that the cuckoo is silent in Africa?” said Edward.

“Henrietta, have you taken that toad out of the bath?” said Mary.

“I wanted to tame him,” said Henrietta. “People
can
tame toads.”

“Have you taken him out of the bath?”

“Yes, he’s back in the garden.”

“Cuckoos can’t perch on the ground,” said Edward. “They have two claws pointing forward and two pointing backward. They just sit on the ground. I saw one yesterday, just after we saw the saucer—”

“Do bustle along, Edward. If you value
More Hunting Wasps
so highly, why do you cover it with marmalade?”