“No. The journey home was worse than going out. We were stacked with casualties. They kept dying. There was none of the Prayer Book and committal to the deep and Abide with Me and so forth. They were just shovelled over. I hung on. I kept imagining Sir — my Headmaster — would be waiting for me at Cadiz. Or my Auntie May.”
“I had not thought you the type for an Auntie May.”
“Missionary. Wonderful woman. There was another missionary on the boat. A Miss Robertson. She died of gangrene and they shovelled her off, too.”
“Have you written about all this?”
“Certainly not. Old Barrister’s memoirs are all deadly. Don’t you think?”
“Yes. But maybe you’d have surprised us.”
“I’ve grown my image, Veneering. Took some doing. I’m not going to upset it now.”
“You mean upset yourself?”
“Yes. Probably. Have some more hock.”
But Veneering gone — ridiculous to have taken a cruise at his age — Filth’s loneliness for the old enemy was extraordinary, his mourning for him entirely different and sharper than his mourning for Betty. He’d told Veneering more than he’d ever told Betty — though never about Ma Didds. He’d even told Veneering about the buttermilk girl. Veneering had cackled. He’d told him about Loss. “Did you tell me about that before?” asked Veneering. “It rings a bell. Did I know him?”
“You’re wandering,” said Filth. They were playing chess.
“Not far,” said Veneering, taking his queen.
I suppose Memoirs might be in the order of things, he thought, with Veneering dead and his house next door torn apart, windows flung wide, a family with children shouting, crying, laughing, breaking through his hedge; the parents growing vegetables and offering him lettuces. Once a child from Veneering’s house had landed at his feet like a football as he sat in the garden reading the Minutes of a new Temple Benchtable. He wanted to throw the child back over the hedge. “Sorry,” the child said.
“I suppose you want your ball back.”
“I haven’t got a ball.”
“Well, what’s that in your hand?”
“Just some old beads.”
Giggles from the bushes.
“I found them in that flower-bed.”
He vanished.
Bloody self-confident, thought Filth. I don’t understand children now. Sir would have flayed him. Then: What am I talking about? Acting the Blimp. Sir wouldn’t have flayed him. He’d have lectured him on birds.
But, too late for that, he thought.
He sat to his desk and attempted a Memoir, but found it impossible. Opinions, judgements had made him famous, but how to write without opinion or judgement? Statement of facts — easy. But how to decide which were the facts? He shrank from the tremendous, essential burden of seeing himself through other people’s eyes. Only God could do it. It seemed blasphemous even to try. Such a multitude of impressions, such a magnitude of emotion. Where was truth to be found?
“Why did you become an advocate, Filth?” Veneering used to ask. “Don’t tell me you wanted to promote the truth.”
“Justice. It interested me.”
“And we know that justice is not the truth.”
“Certainly not.”
“But it’s some sort of step towards it?”
“Not even that. Do you agree?”
“I agree,” Veneering had said, busy with his ghastly jigsaw. “The Law is nevertheless an instinct. A good instinct. A framework for behaviour. And a safeguard (good — bit of the church roof) in time of trouble. Parlement of Foules — Chaucer.”
“Rooks have a parliament,” said Filth, keeping his end up.
But though his Memoirs went on endlessly, and rather impressively as he thought them through in the small hours of the night, sometimes to the accompaniment of his beating heart and too much whiskey, when it came to getting them upon paper they would not come. They made him feel so foolish. He felt Betty looking over his shoulder and saying kindly, “jolly good.” He sat in the sun-lounge each morning, defeated, and Garbutt went tramping by. Oh, how could one concentrate? And, oh great heaven! Here came that Chloe in lacy mauve and a perm, round the back of the house and waving a cake. To think he had once. .
He deliberately arose, holding his tartan blanket round him and shuffled to the other side of the table to sit with his back to her, facing the door to the sitting-room which immediately opened and in came the cleaning lady, Mrs.-er, with a cup of tea.
Decisions came fast to Filth, all decisions except what to include in his Memoirs. Mrs.-er put down the cup and saucer, talking the while, saying that that Chloe from the church was wanting to give him another sponge.
“Mrs.-er,” he said, “I’ve been meaning to tell you. I am going away.”
“Away? Oh, yes?”
“Yes. I am going to Malmesbury.”
“Malmesbury? Down Gloucester?”
“Yes. I was there in the Army during the War. Just for a look round.”
“If it’s hotels, be careful. There’ll be steps and stairs you don’t know. Remember poor Judge Veneering.”
“It is not a ship. I’ll leave my address.”
“I’ll pack for you.”
“Thank you, I’m sure I can manage. And I’ll be hiring a car.”
Two minutes later he saw her outside, furiously conferring with Garbutt, the mauve woman having disappeared. Their excitement maddened him.
The next day, she came in to tell him that if it was a hotel he ought to have new pyjamas.
He said, “Oh, and Mrs.-er, when I come back I intend to manage here alone.”
“Alone?”
“I think I am becoming too dependent on you all. I’m going to employ the Social Services. The Meals on Wheels. I’m sorry, Mrs.-er.”
“After all these years you still don’t know my name,” she said. “That’s it, then. I’ll go now. Get yourself to Malmesbury.”
He saw her clacking at Garbutt on the lawn and marching away, and felt gleefully cruel. He opened the glass doors and waited till Garbutt went by.
“I know what you’re going to say,” said Garbutt. “I’ll just see the fire’s out, then I’m off. You know where to find me if you change your mind. Her name’s Katey, by the way. You’ve gutted her.”
In the hotel at Malmesbury, journey safely accomplished, splendid room looking across at the Abbey, smell of a good dinner floating up, his unrepentant euphoria remained. Their blank faces, ha! Their disbelief. They’d see he was his own master yet. And here in Malmesbury not a soul knew him. He stumbled on the stairs and limped into the dining-room, rather wishing he’d brought his walking-stick for his explorations tomorrow.
The ankle next morning was the size of a small balloon and he telephoned the Desk for assistance. They suggested bringing him breakfast in bed which outraged him. Staggering down a steep flight of stairs between two waiters, he somehow made the breakfast-room. Outside it was pouring with rain and people went by behind umbrellas at a forty-five degree angle against the wind. Unable to walk from the table, he enquired whether there was a doctor who could come and see him and was told the way to a surgery. It was not far, they said, but Old Filth couldn’t even reach the hotel’s front door and sank upon an oak bench. People passed by. A whole coachload of tourists streamed past, chattering about the disappointing weather. He asked if the Desk would ring for a doctor to call to examine him.
“You’d have to go to the hospital for that. For an X-ray.”
“I only need a GP’s opinion.”
The Desk stared. “You’d have to go round to the surgery. They don’t do home visits now unless it’s serious.”
He asked the Desk to call a taxi.