Пит Таунсенд - The Age of Anxiety

Bingo looks up at me now as I write; at least for my beloved collie I am a reliable god of sorts. Bingo certainly taught me the value of waiting. He waits constantly for an opportunity to work. Catching a ball of discarded paper that I toss toward the basket qualifies as a matter of vital importance, and he always catches it elegantly and efficiently without fuss in midair and quickly returns it to my feet. He stares at the ball, with shifty glances sideways in my direction, without moving his head. His art is 50 percent in the catch, 50 percent in the alert but patient waiting for the next throw. Sometimes the collie’s waiting weighs on me, a distraction. Is it possible to wait when someone or some animal is waiting as you wait? So it was with Walter. Having advised him to learn to wait, and now at last—after years of labyrinthine gardening—to act, I had thrown a ball, tossed out a challenge that was rapidly becoming too complex for him to negotiate, and too intimidating a problem for me to act as guide. I would be no help.

Exploding stars. War. Distant explosions, cries of pain and horror. German soldiers. French. British. Afghan. Iraqi. American voices. Holocaust, apocalypse, war, terror. Planes diving, shooting. Tanks maneuvering. Rockets screaming. Engines. Marching boots. Running, scuffling, skidding. Falling walls. Children’s voices. A correspondent reports on a mobile phone. Data sounds from the past-present-future, so ticker tape, Morse, mobile phone sounds. Closer explosions. More cries of pain. Cries of triumph. Victory parades. Cheering crowds. Then an even bigger explosion, a massive one. The fall of radioactive rain. More cheering. More crying. Distant speeches across a crowded city square. Dictators, peacemakers, pacifists, warmongers. The sound of families pleading with their loved ones, do not go, you will never come back, my duty, my duty, my duty, my religion, no God but God, the only savior . More explosions. Bells ringing. Rising to an incredible cacophony. Then a single bell, mournful.

From the shameful bed he had shared with Selena it seemed to Walter that there was only one place he could go. Floss and Ronnie had driven the horsebox to the hack in the Lake District, so the Volvo he so rarely used was at the back of the house. He had grabbed the laptop containing his father’s recordings of the soundscapes he had been hearing, picked up the car keys, a credit card, and started driving toward Wales. Over the next ten hours he passed through Holyhead, over the Irish Sea to Dublin, and on by road through Wicklow to Wexford. Then from Waterford to Duncannon.

When he later described to me his arrival at Siobhan’s father’s cottage he invoked a scene that could have been the setting for one of Constable’s paintings of gloomy and portentous cottages. He stood outside the building, a sepulchre to Siobhan’s father, the drunken bully, as the sun sank behind gusts of wood smoke from the chimney. As he moved toward the front door it opened, and in the shadows a man wearing a beret, gray jacket, and high-necked dark blue sweater emerged. Before Walter could see his face he turned to kiss Siobhan on the cheek, then mounted an old bicycle and rode through an arch of roses to the footpath and the road back to town. He didn’t acknowledge Walter. He may have heard the Volvo.

Siobhan smiled at him as she walked out into the dimming light, her red hair still luxurious, her blue-green eyes glinting, her teeth the spectacular white he remembered. The first thing he noticed was that her bosom, always generous, was larger; like her sister she had blossomed. Still fresh from the lascivious entanglements of his time with Selena, and connecting again with his body for the first time since he left Sheen, he felt a lustful continuum. Siobhan swayed toward him, her arms outstretched.

“Hello, Walter,” she said. Her voice was as beautiful as ever, as sonorous and lilting. He felt a jealous pang as he realized her voice sounded smoky and tinged with the huskiness of sexual afterglow. Who was that man he had seen?

How could she look so young? Walter was forgetting that once a man knows a woman she remains for him almost frozen in time, unless she is tragically struck down by illness or too much smoking, food, or booze. Siobhan looked the same to him. He had imagined she would be wrinkled, with a belly, her hair full of gray. Of course she was subject to all those changes, but Walter could see little evidence of them in the evening light.

“Hiya, Siobhan,” he said. “Sorry to drop in like this. Not feeling so hot.”

He had not seen his first wife for over fifteen years. She looked the same. She looked better in fact. This was not what he expected.

“So you came to me.” Siobhan laughed. “Am I your mother now?”

Damn these Collins girls, he thought; he had indeed hoped for a maternal shoulder—advice, skepticism, and pragmatism. Instead he was plunged straight back into the romantic mist Siobhan had always emanated around her, and he knew his visit might be a mistake.

By the fire, over wine, they shared the essential details of their respective experiences of the past fifteen years. They had communicated a few times by letter in that time, but there had been no explanations, no recriminations, no melodrama, and none of the old intimacy. Now, face-to-face, Siobhan seemed genuinely interested in what Walter had been doing, whether he was happy, whether Floss was happy, and if she was still close to Selena.

“It’s a fucking mess, Siobhan.” Walter was not a self-pitying type, but for a second his eyes threatened to fill with tears.

“You had sex with Selena.” Siobhan had obviously received a call from Selena, who had guessed where Walter might head after their argument.

Walter did not reply.

“She’s always wanted that,” Siobhan said with a smile. “Maybe now she’ll grow up and leave you alone. She always wants whatever I have. You should have fucked her years ago instead of building yourself up in her eyes.”

Walter still said nothing. He was grappling with Siobhan’s bald female logic and trying to put out of his mind that even if she were right, she was talking about her sister, not some unknown groupie.

“Selena called. She told me what she told you. Do you believe her?”

“I’m afraid I do. There have been rumors for years about Floss and Ronnie. I used to discount them.”

“Because Ronnie is gay?”

“I discounted them because Floss loves me, loves our life and her work, and on top of everything else because she adores Ronnie.” Walter suddenly began to make some sense of the situation. “She wouldn’t hurt Ronnie, or threaten their career together, by having sex with him.”

“I agree with you. So you don’t believe Selena?”

“I’m not sure.”

“Did she tell you how she knows what happened between Floss and Ronnie?”

“No, she wouldn’t give me any details. It was absurd. After ruining my life she then said she couldn’t betray her best friend.”

Siobhan laughed. “Selena played you, Walter, she doesn’t really know any more than you do. Not for sure.”

“She said there was more going on. She said Floss had a secret. Some awful secret.”

“Walter,” soothed Siobhan. “Selena is so jealous of Floss it has eaten her up for years. But Floss is maybe her best friend too. She’s so torn. You know that when you and I split up she thought she could move in on you.”

Walter interrupted, “You left me.”

“All right,” said Siobhan gently. “Let’s not make this worse. Can I get you another drink?”

They shared another half a bottle of red wine. Walter did not ask who the man was he had seen as he arrived, and Siobhan did not volunteer anything. Eventually they both quietened.