The Walking Stick (16 page)

‘No. Not by the sea.’

‘I don’t know how you could go to that country,’ Douglas said, ‘where there’s still so much oppression.’ He put his hand on my shoulder. ‘And
poverty.’

‘A lot of them looked quite happy to me.’

‘That of course is the tourist’s view.’ We went into the drawing room. ‘A glass of port to say welcome home?’

‘Thank you.’

‘You’re walking without your stick?’ Erica said.

‘Only partly. I left it at the door.’

‘But you used to use it everywhere.’

‘I think I can manage better than I used to.’

We sat down. Douglas came over with the port.

‘I don’t think we should forget,’ Erica said, ‘what Mr Adrian warned us of.’

‘What’s that?’

‘He said you mustn’t overtax the muscles of that leg, the few that still function. He said you could only develop them to a certain degree, and if you tried them beyond that point
they’d be likely to let you down.’

‘I’ll risk it.’

Douglas said: ‘No one has ever fully assessed the mind–body correlation. Remarkable things are happening every day for which there’s no medical explanation.’

‘I don’t think it’s all that remarkable,’ I said curtly. ‘I’m only trying a new way of walking. I just got into the way of it while I was bathing.’

‘You bathed?’ said Douglas. ‘Better still. In Spain I suppose it’s different.’

‘There are a lot of cripples, yes,’ I agreed. ‘But in fact we were bathing on an empty beach.’

‘My dear,’ said Erica, ‘I’m sure Douglas didn’t mean that at all—’

‘I meant,’ my father said, looking at me with his frank blue eyes, ‘nothing more than to be pleased you were going in the sea. If I put it badly, I’m sorry.’

We sipped our port, and Douglas talked of a protest he was organizing against the police. Five youths had beaten up and robbed a milkman on his round, and the story was that when they were
arrested they themselves had been badly handled at the police station. Douglas had written to
The Times
and
The Guardian
and was getting up a petition to present to the local MP.

Through all this Leigh was never mentioned. It seemed he was to be one of the very few unmentionable subjects in this house. With half a chance Erica would have rationalized. A barrow boy who
painted. The unforgivable thing was that his paintings were old-fashioned.

I stayed till ten-thirty. Then Erica said: ‘When do you think of coming back?’

‘I haven’t quite decided.’

‘Are you at Sarah’s?’

‘Not just now.’

‘Sarah’s coming here on Sunday with Philip. Why don’t you come?’

‘With Leigh?’

There was silence as she pushed up her glasses.

‘If he would like it.’

‘I’ll ask him.’

‘The trouble with sex,’ said Douglas, ‘is that it complicates life instead of – as it should – simplifying it. The essence of physical sex is that it should release
tension. But in the act human beings nearly always build up within themselves bigger tensions than they break down. Hence Arabella, no doubt.’

It was the first time I knew he knew about her.

I tried to find a sort of middle course for the time being by going back to live at Ennismore Gardens. I made the excuse that it was difficult to get to and from Grafton Street
each day from Rotherhithe, but in fact it was easier from there than from Hampstead.

He argued long, but I felt I
had
to live separately from him for a while, just to get my bearings. One night he told me he’d been to the labour exchange, and a week later he took a
job as a bus conductor.

I said: ‘D’you need money that badly?’

‘Well, soon will.’

‘Have you any time to paint at all?’

‘Does it matter?’

I blamed myself for taking him to the galleries. Before that he had had doubts enough, but they had been doubts of success not certainty of failure. I felt I had helped to destroy him.

During this time we were making love, and there was no abatement of our need. But living separately was constantly raising problems, of meeting, of leaving, of spending the night. I always made
a point of going back to Sarah’s flat afterward. And the fact that we were both now working regular hours didn’t help.

One night he said how much he wished we could get married. This was the first time he had ever mentioned marriage, and I looked at him, trying to see how serious he was. When I did not speak he
added with a scowl that Lorne, being a Catholic, would never divorce him. But, I said, if she left
him
, might it not be possible for him to divorce
her
– for desertion?

He said: ‘My God, if only I could . . . But anyway, you’re too good for me.’

‘Oh, I’m a great catch with a leg and a half. But might it not be worth keeping the idea in mind?’

‘I’ll more than keep it in mind. I’ll find out.’

The next evening he met me with a wry face. ‘I went to a lawyer in the lunch hour. It’s two years. She has to have been gone two years before you can file a what’s-it for
desertion.’

‘Well, that’s – that could be worse. Isn’t it eighteen months already?’

‘Nearly. But it means over a year more before the thing is sewn up. And in the meantime I’ve got to put on an act of wanting her to come back.’

‘Would she?’

‘I wouldn’t think there’s a chance in hell. But the solicitor chap, this Davis, said it might be worth having her watched. If we could prove adultery against her . .
.’

‘Would she be likely to?’

‘Don’t know. I was her first. It depends whether she’s met anybody.’

‘What did you decide to do?’

‘Have her watched. Expensive but it’s worth it. I’ve
got
to afford that.’

‘You’re sure she wouldn’t divorce you?’

‘Not a hope. She never misses Mass on Sundays.’

‘You’re not a Catholic?’

‘Me, no . . . I’m nothing. Remember the man in Shaw’s play. “I believe in Michelangelo and Rembrandt, in the might of – of design, the mystery of colour, the
redemption of all things by beauty everlasting. Amen.” Some caper like that. That’s near enough to what I believe in, in spite of being no bloody good at it!’

I said: ‘That’s a lot to believe in, darling. It’s a religion on its own.’

Since we came back I’d heard nothing of Ted Sandymount or Jack Foil, but the following Saturday night Leigh took me for a drink to a public house in the Old Kent Road
where a group called the Sunspots were playing, and they were both there, together with three or four other people I knew by sight.

It was a fantastic place because the pub was enormous but was so crowded that they had to have a doorman to regulate the numbers, and they only let us in in rotation as the same number came out.
Once in, it was pretty nearly impossible to move or speak; you stood shoulder to shoulder with your neighbour, who might or might not have been able to get a drink, and there you stuck like a crowd
at a cup tie, while every cubic inch of air over your head was full of the beat and howl of amplified trumpet and electric guitar. After we’d got a bit acclimatized Leigh took my hand and
began to hack a way through the crowd. Almost everyone was young.

I thought, don’t get scared of being closed in, forget claustrophobia, somebody’s shoulder, somebody’s back, somebody’s hair, pity I’m not as tall as Sarah; crowd
coming the other way; impasse; tack, Leigh, go round them. What’ll you have? Right, two whiskies. Then we saw the others at the back of the room; Ted waved; whiskies in hand we began to fight
our way.

At the back it was just tolerable. Ted got up and gave me his seat beside Jack Foil. Thick lips, pebbles smiling. ‘Miss Dainton. Nice to see you again. D’you come here
often?’

‘Never before. It’s very crowded, isn’t it?’

‘What?’

‘Very crowded.’

There were broken bottles underfoot. A barman was squeezing through trying to collect empty glasses. His left hand had endless fingers, producing unnumbered bubbles of glass like a glassblower
in a factory.

‘. . . music?’ Jack Foil shouted.

‘What?’

‘D’you like this music?’

‘Yes, love it.’

‘Strange.’

‘What?’

‘Very strange. Youth. I feel very old.’

‘Why?’

‘Must be much oldest here.’

I looked round. He probably was.

‘Blood, rhythm, sex,’ he said.

‘What?’

‘What the young like, I suppose.’

‘Isn’t just that . . .’

The group reached a crescendo and crashed into silence. No one applauded. Voices suddenly strident in place of the beat. Leigh was talking to two girls we’d met somewhere. They were quite
pretty.

‘. . . worried about Leigh.’

I turned back. Jack Foil’s heavy voice did not somehow rise above the hum.

‘I’m sorry?’

‘A little worried about Leigh, Miss Dainton. Lost interest in painting, become objectless. Crazy for a talented kid like him to spend his life on platform of bus. Don’t you
agree?’

‘I hope he’ll soon get something better.’

‘Very fond of him. Look on him – like a nephew. Still think he can paint. A very pretty picture of you.’

The next number began. It was a famous pop song. Ted shouted at us what were we all drinking, and then began to fight his way toward the bar.

‘A part-time job, he needs,’ shouted Mr Foil in my ear. Smell of Guinness and carnation scent.

‘I didn’t know his legacy was so nearly spent.’

The pebbles smiled again. ‘Not a careful boy. Doesn’t keep account of what he spends, so money dribbles away. Easily done. Have been trying to think of something for him.’

The music got louder, more all-invading, then sank again. Someone dropped ash on my shoes.

‘D’you mean working for you?’

‘Well, or something. He’s not skilled.’

Leigh was laughing with the two girls, making rather a fuss of one of them. This twist in my stomach, any connection with jealousy?

‘I hope you’ll try,’ I said.

On the way home I told Leigh what Jack Foil had said. A curious expression crossed his face. ‘Well, I’ve done odd jobs for him before.’

‘Such as?’

‘Oh, various. He’s got lots of irons in the fire.’

‘What sort?’

‘All sorts. He promotes things. I’ve told you.’

We stopped at traffic lights. ‘Leigh, tell me what you mean.’

‘Well . . . You can’t have supposed . . . Among other things, he’s a fence.’

‘A
fence
? He buys stolen property?’

‘Yes.’ We started off with a jerk that nearly took us into the car in front. ‘Don’t ever tell anyone, will you?’

We turned into Westminster Bridge Road. ‘If you’ve worked for him before, is that how you’ve worked for him?’

‘Oh, not exactly. Sometimes it’s handy for him to have someone like me who can act as messenger boy, or delivery boy or what-have-you. It’s been dead easy and no risk. And
worth a fiver or a tenner. That’s for half a day’s work, and no tax deducted.’

No more then until we reached the flat.

‘Leigh,’ I said, ‘there must be something more worth doing than being errand boy to a crook.’

He sat with his hands gripping the wheel. ‘When are you going to cut this out and come and live with me?’

‘I don’t know. Isn’t this the best arrangement for the present?’

‘Who for? Not for me, it’s not.’

That week Philip called in one evening, and while we were alone I mentioned this thing about divorce for desertion and he said: ‘No, it’s three years, Deborah. You
have to have deserted a person three years before he can file a petition.’

‘Oh,’ I said carefully, ‘I’m sure I was told it was two.’

‘Alas, no. I just happen to have been reading up the latest Act because of a case we’re doing next week.’

When I met Leigh I asked him again. Again he said, two, until I told him what I knew and then he suddenly gave way and admitted he had been told three also.

‘But why?’ I said. ‘Why lie to me? It doesn’t make sense.’

‘I – didn’t want you to know. I thought you might not feel you could wait that long.’

‘But I was bound to find out sooner or later!’

‘Yes, but later it wouldn’t matter so much. It would be nearer the time then, wouldn’t it?’

There was silence between us. ‘D’you know,’ I said, ‘I can’t
bear
you to lie to me. It puts all our – our relationship in question.’

‘I’m sorry, love. I’m that afraid of losing you.’

‘But don’t you see – if it matters that much – this is the way you
would
lose me?’

‘Don’t speak of it.’

‘But I must speak of it. Unless there’s – there’s honesty between us, and trust, there can’t be anything. Oh, of course we can make love and go skating and that
sort of thing, but that doesn’t add up to what I want – or what you seem to want. It’s back to the old thing we broke up on before. You don’t cheat people you really care
about.’

‘It wasn’t meant to be that, honest,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry, love.’

‘Oh,’ I said, ‘I’m sorry too. Perhaps I’m blowing it up too big. But you do see, don’t you, what I mean?’

‘I see all right,’ he said. ‘Maybe I’ll learn in time.’

Whittington’s asked me to go to see a house in Norfolk, a small Victorian mansion built by one of the beer barons in 1890 for his eldest son. Aside from the furniture
there was a valuable collection of china and porcelain. Grant Stokes, who did furniture, drove me in his car, and we got there about eleven on the Thursday, having overnight things with us, since
it was a two-day job. Mr and Mrs Bustard, the owners, had just inherited, and were going for a quick sale; he looked like something smooth and well pressed in the City and she had blonde hair and
ice-blue eyes and smoked and coughed alternately.

My mouth watered at the very sight of the lovely display shelves of Doulton and Sèvres and Dresden. I started in on the Doulton, but at once began to sense something wrong with it –
after being constantly in touch for a number of years one almost smells the imitation – and I soon knew it for a forgery. I passed on to the next group of things – some lovely Dresden
figures – and found them the same. By the time we stopped for lunch I had not found a single genuine piece. This went on all through the afternoon, and by six I was in a bit of a panic
because I had covered all the show pieces, and they were forgeries without exception.