a strange and terrifying territory my salacious doings had landed her in.
Oh, but what a good son I was now, attentive, grave, studious, dutiful far beyond the call of duty. How prompt I was to run a household errand for my mother, with what patience and sympathy did I listen to her complaints, her grievances, her denunciations of our lodgers’ laziness, venality and neglect of personal hygiene. It was all a sham, of course. If Mrs Gray had bethought herself and come back as suddenly as she had gone, a thing that seemed to me not at all impossible, I would have flung myself upon her with all the old ardour, the old recklessness. For it was not discovery and disgrace, not the town’s gossips or my mother’s unspoken accusations, that made me tremble with fear. What I was afraid of was my own grief, the weight of it, the ineluctable corrosive force of it; that, and the stark awareness I had of being, for the first time in my life, entirely alone, a Crusoe shipwrecked and stranded in the limitless wastes of a boundless and indifferent ocean. Or rather say a Theseus, abandoned on Naxos while Ariadne hastened off about her uncaring business.
What was striking too was the silence that I felt around me. The town was humming with talk and I was the only one nobody spoke to. I welcomed Billy’s onslaught that day in the Forge, for it made a noise, at least, and was aimed at me, uniquely. There will have been those in the town who were genuinely shocked and scandalised, but those too who will have secretly envied Mrs Gray and me, the one lot not necessarily exclusive of the other. And everyone, to be sure, must have been vastly entertained, even those few who might have sympathised with us, disgraced, bereft and wounded as we were. I fully expected Father Priest to come calling again, this time to recommend that I be incarcerated among the Trappists on some sheep-flecked mountainside in remotest Alpland, but even he kept his distance, and his peace. Perhaps he was embarrassed. Perhaps, I ask myself uneasily, they were all embarrassed, even as they rubbed their hands in relish at the scandal? I would have preferred them to be outraged. It would have seemed more—what shall I say?—more respectful of the great thing Mrs Gray and I had made between us and that was now no more.
I waited, confidently at first but then with deepening bitterness, for Mrs Gray to send me something, a word, a valediction from afar, but nothing came. How would she have communicated with me? She could hardly have sent a letter through the post to me, to my mother’s house. But wait—how did we communicate before, when our affair was still going on? There was a telephone in the overflowing cubby-hole beside the kitchen that my mother called her office, it was an antiquated model with a handle at the side that had to be cranked to get a connection to the operator, but I would never have called Mrs Gray on it, and she would never have dreamed of calling me, for apart from anything else the operator always listened in, she could be heard on the line, making curious shiftings and excited, mousy scrabblings. We must have left notes for each other somewhere, at Cotter’s place, maybe—but no, Mrs Gray did not go there alone, she was afraid of the woods, and on those occasions when by chance she got there before me I would find her cowering anxiously in the doorway and on the point of flight. So how did we manage? I do not know. Another unsolved mystery, among the many mysteries. There was an occasion when through some mix-up she did not come when she was supposed to, and I waited for her through an agonised afternoon, increasingly convinced that she would appear no more, that she was lost to me for ever. That was the single occasion I can recall when the lines of communication between us broke down—but what lines were they, and where were they laid?
I did not dream about her, after she was gone, or if I did I forgot what I had dreamed. My sleeping mind was more merciful than the waking one, which never tired of tormenting me. Well, yes, it did tire of its sport, eventually. Nothing so intense could last for long. Or might it have, if I had truly loved her, with selfless passion, as they say, as people are said to have loved in olden times? Such a love would have destroyed me, surely, as it used to destroy the heroes and the heroines in the old books. But what a pretty corpse I would have made, marbled on my bier, clutching in my fingers a marble lily for remembrance.
My my, talk about trouble. Marcy Meriwether says she is going to sue me. She telephones half a dozen times a day, demanding to know what I have done with Dawn Devonport, where I have hidden her, her furious voice on the line swooping from operatic trills and warbles to a gangster’s guttural muttering. I imagine her, a disembodied Medusa-head suspended in the ether, threatening, bullying, cajoling. I insist repeatedly that I do not know the whereabouts of her star. At this she does her harsh and phlegmy laugh, followed by an interval of heavy wheezing as she lights up another cigarette. She knows I am lying. If filming is disrupted for one more day,
Toby Taggart invited me to lunch at Ostentation Towers the day after my return from Italy. I found him in the Corinthian Rooms, in a plush-lined booth, squirming and sighing and sitting on his hands to keep from biting his nails. What an aggrieved and wounded look he gave me. He was drinking a martini with an olive in it, he said it was his third; I have never seen him drink before, it is a mark of his distress. Look, Alex, he said, softly, patiently, this is serious, his shaggy head lowered and his square hands joined before him over his martini as if to consecrate it—this could jeopardise the whole movie, do you understand that, Alex, do you? Toby reminds me of a boy I knew at school, a shambling fellow with an enormous head that was made more massive still by a mop of glistening black hair coiled tight in wiry curls that tumbled over his forehead and his ears. Ambrose, he was called, Ambrose Abbott, nicknamed Bud, of course, or sometimes, ingeniously, Lou—yes, even in the matter of names he had no luck, no luck at all, poor chap. Ambrose could be heard coming from afar, for he was a keen collector of metal objects—blunt penknives, keys without locks, tarnished coins no longer in circulation, bottle-tops, even, in times of scarcity—so that as he walked he clinked and chinked like a Bedouin’s loaded pack-camel. Also he was asthmatic, and carried on constantly a medley of sighs and soft whoops and faint, rasping whistles. He was immensely brainy, though, and took first place in every school test and State examination. I think, looking back, he had a crush on me. I imagine he envied my pose of insolent bravado—I was already rehearsing for those future roles as dashing leading men—and my proclaimed disdain for study and hard work. Perhaps too he sensed the musky aura of Mrs Gray about me, for it was in the time of Mrs Gray that I came to know him well, or wellish. He was a tender soul. He used to press gifts on me, gems from his collection, which I accepted with ill grace and swapped for other things, or lost, or threw away. He was killed, later, knocked off his bike by a lorry on his way home from school. Sixteen, he was, when he died. Poor Ambrose. The dead are my dark matter, filling up impalpably the empty spaces of the world.
We had a pleasant lunch, Toby and I, and spoke of many things, his family, his friends, his hopes and ambitions. I really do think him a fine fellow. When we had finished and I was leaving I told him he should not worry, that I was sure Dawn Devonport had simply gone underground for a time and would soon return and be among us again. Toby is staying at the Towers, and insisted on seeing me out. The doorman tipped his top-hat to us and drew open the tall glass door—
I walked across the park. There was ice on the duck pond and on the ice a crazed glare of reflected, warmthless sunlight. All at once, ahead of me, I spied a familiar figure, shuffling along the metalled pathway under the black and glistening trees. I had not had a sighting of him for some while, and had begun to worry; someday surely he will fall off the wagon finally and do for himself at last. I caught up with him and slowed my pace and walked along close behind him. I did not detect the usual fug that he trails in his wake, which was encouraging. In fact, as soon became clear, he has undergone one of his periodic metamorphoses—that girl of his must have taken him in hand again and given him a thorough going over. He does not seem as perky as in previous resurrections, it is true—his feet in particular, despite the plush boots, seem permanently beyond repair—and he has developed a distinct hump above his right shoulder-blade. All the same he is a new man, compared to what the recent old one was like. His pea-coat had been cleaned, his college scarf washed, his beard trimmed, while those desert-boots looked brand-new—I wonder if the daughter works in a shoe shop. By now I had drawn level with him, though I kept myself at a discreet remove on the far side of the path. He was fairly surging along, despite the infirmity of his feet. He had his hands up, as usual, half clenched into fists in their fingerless gloves; now, though, in his resuscitated state, he might have been some champ’s favoured sparring partner rather than the punch-drunk
