The Book And The Brotherhood

poured out two glasses of the mixture in the jug. These were gratefully accepted. 'It's fruit cup.'

`Dangerous stuff,' said Lily, 'always stronger than you imagine!'

`People always say that about fruitcup,' said Rose, then felt she had been rude. She tried to think of something to ameliorate the impression, could not, and felt annoyed with herself and Lily.

The bell rang and Rose could hear Patricia at the door welcoming Tamar. Rose poured herself a glass of the fruit cup, which was indeed stronger than it seemed, and drank it quickly. She was afraid that Gerard would want her to invite Gulliver and Lily to the Boyars reading party and she would have to do so. Gulliver, though invited to Guy Fawkes, had never yet been invited to Boyars.

Lily said thank heavens it was not raining.

Tamar came in. She was not wearing her usual coat and skirt uniform, and had ventured into a brown woollen dress with an embroidered collar. A near candle revealed her pale transparent milky cheek, flushed a little with the cold, and her cleanly parted silky fair hair, with its evenly cut ends, held in a round slide. Holding Rose's warm hand in her little cold omfor a moment, she kissed Rose. Then after a moment's hesitation she kissed Lily. Lily liked Tamar but was never sure that Tamar liked her. Tamar smiled at Gulliver, and they made vague gestures. She declined the fruit cup, said she would get herself a soft drink in the kitchen, and went off.

Meanwhile Gerard and Gideon had come in from the garden, leaving Jenkin, the enthusiast, to complete the arrangements, which included the removal of all extraneous obstacles from the lawn. They came in, not by the doors into the drawing room which were still closed and curtained, but by a corridor which passed the kitchen and led to the dining room and hall. In the dining room the long table, which had been pushed back against the wall and covered with a green baize cloth, then by a sturdy white damask cloth, was already occupied. by plates, cutlery, wine glasses, open wine bottles, salad bowls, Rose's smoked salmon canapes which had been allowed out, bread, butter, biscuits, the terrine and the ratatouille, also a display of ham and tongue which Patricia had felt inspired to add at the last moment. The steak and kidney pie, the curry and the potatoes would come in hot. The trifle was still in the fridge. Rose's sandwiches were not to appear. The fate of the little cakes was still uncertain. Gerard, who had learnt, but too late, of Patricia's plans, viewed this elaborate spread with dismay. The usual arrangement was that sandwich-style food would be available throughout the evening for people to come and grab informally by hand whenever they felt like it. These pretentious dishes suggested a dinner hour, a queue, guests standing or sitting awkwardly with heaped plates, a scene which he detested. Patricia arrived with a bowl of mayonnaise which she had made in the afternoon.

The dining room was rather dark, looking out on the bushy front garden, with its pair of ash trees, and the street. The heavy bottle-green curtains were pulled, the walls, striped dark brown, and dark ochre, liberally (by Gerard's standards, for he did not like clutter) covered by nineteenth-century Japanese paintings, shadowy exquisite things with sparse smudgy lines and dashes of colour, representing birds, dogs, insects, trees, frogs, tortoises, monkeys, frail girls, casual men, mountains, rivers, the moon. Gideon respected these, though they were not his cup of tea. He regarded most of Gerard's mediocre collection with contempt. Looking now at a drawing of a dragonfly on a bulrush he said, 'Yes, that's quite cute. But why don't you try to collect some good pictures? I could advise you.'

`I don't want to develop expensive tastes and be like people who can only drink the best wine! I like grand art in galleries. I don't want it in my house.'

`I'm not talking about grand art, but you might aim a little higher! I confess I don't share your passion for English watercolours. Wouldn't you like a Wilson Steer? You were keen on him once. I could look out for one – of course it wouldn't be cheap. Or a Vuillard. Vuillard is the chap to buy now, he's still underpriced.'

`Far too grand for me.'

`Chagall, Morisot?'

`No thanks.'

`The wallpaper is good. Our Longhis would look nice on it, and the little Watteau.'

`Look, Gideon,' said Gerard, 'this is my house, I don't want to divide it up. You find a place of your own to live in. You aren't poverty-stricken. You've been here long enough.'

`Plain speaking. All right, Gerard, we don't want you to divide the house, we want the house.'

Patricia came in again, carrying a jug of fruit cup, hearing Gideon's words. 'Yes, Gerry, you owe it to the family.'

`I have no family,' said Gerard.

Patricia ignored this bad joke. 'Leonard will be married soon, I don't mean he has anyone in view, but he intends to marry. This house is unique, it's most unusual in this part of London. We've always wanted to live in Notting Hill. It has this big garden with trees, and there are those good room, at the top, and attics, it's a family house. Doesn't it strike you as unjust to occupy all this space?'

`No.

`By the way, Tamar says she doesn't want Perrier, she wants orange squash, I wonder if there's any in the sideboard?'

`I regard you two as my lodgers, except that I pay the bills' `I can give you a cheque, old man.'

`Don't be silly.'

Tamar appeared at the door. 'Look, please don't bother, Perrier is perfectly all right, I don't want orange squash Hello Gerard, hello Gideon.'

^`Tamar!' said Gideon. He went over and kissed her.

Patricia said, 'He quite fancies her, don't you, dear?'

Gerard, who did not care for jokes of this kind by married people, concentrated on Tamar. He thought, she is like fresh air, fresh water, good bread. He said nothing but he smiled and she smiled back.

‘Well, here is the orangeade, so you'd better have it,' said Patricia who had been peering into the sideboard. 'I suppose Duncan will want to drink whisky all the evening. I'll leave the whisky and gin out in case anyone wants it, but don't encourage them.'

Jenkin was taking the opportunity to linger in the garden. The frost was on the grass and he could feel the pleasant crunching of it underfoot. Feeling warm inside his overcoat, woollen cap and gloves, he enjoyed the cold air, nosed it, caressed it with his face. The two heavy cast-iron seats with the swan heads and feet had been moved, with the help of Gerard and Gideon, to the end of the garden beyond the walnut tree, the large flowerpots had been removed from the centre of the terrace, the bottles for the rockets were in place, the posts for the Catherine wheels had been hammered in, the fireworks sorted out and set in order in the kitchen corridor, with the sparklers and the electric torches. Jenkin puffed out his steamy breath and watched it in the dim light which came along the side of the house from the street lamps, and also from Gerard's bedroom where the light was on and the curtains had not been pulled. Breath, soul, life, our breaths are numbered. e breathed deeply, feeling the cold penetrate down into the warm channels and recesses of his body, and felt that never limmed and never disappointing satisfaction of, after being with other people, being alone. He lifted his head like an animal who might, upon some empty hillside, let out some lonely inarticulate cry, not a sad cry, though not without a sad tone or echo, but just a deep irrepressible cry of being. So in silence he let out his noiseless bellow to the chill night air and the stars.

It was still early but had been dark for some time and in London gardens all about the fireworks had begun to go off. The warm glow of bonfires could be seen here and there, the occasional long leaping flame, and sudden golden lights revealed the brick facades of houses, and the branches, some leafless, some evergreen, of distant trees. There were abrupt whirring and whizzing and popping sounds, small sharp explosions, and the special sizzling noise of ascending rockets and their sighing or crackling burst high in the air and brief glory of'scatter,ng or slowly falling stars. Jenkin loved rockets. Gerard always, as a matter of form, invited his next-door nei^ghbours to the Guy Fawkes party, but they never came. The neighbours on one side found firework merriment embarrassing, and those on the other, who had children, set up their own celebration rather earlier than Gerard's. This party was now nearing its close, the rockets had been seen off with ritual cries of 'aaah!' and there was a murmur of talk from the other side of the wall. Jenkin became aware that he was being watched. A row of faces, children's faces, had appeared at the top of the wall. Jenkin looked at the small heads and said, `Hello.'The children looked at him in silence. Then suddenly, all together, they disappeared, and there was a little muffled burst of laughter from the other side. Jenkin had never really got used to children. That was perhaps one of the secrets (and it was a secret) of his success as a schoolmaster. He understood the awful private miseries of children, their horrors. In school, he enjoyed that easy, enviable, almost absolute authority which seems like a gift of nature,