Jane Gardam - Old Filth

“Merry Christmas. Good of you.”

They stood in the drear, unhollied hall.

“I’ll get you a towel. Better take off your cardigan. I’ll find you another. Whiskey?”

In the brown and freezing sitting-room a jigsaw puzzle only one-eighth completed was laid out over a huge table. Table and jigsaw were both white with dust. The venture looked hopeless.

“Too much damned sky,” said Veneering as they stood contemplating it. “I’ll put another bar on. I don’t often sit in here. You must be cold. Maybe we’ll hear your car from here, but I doubt it. I’d guess it won’t get through.”

“I wonder if I might use your phone? Mine seemed to be defunct.”

“Mine too, I’d guess, if yours is,” said Veneering. “By all means try.”

The phone was dead.

They sat before two small, red wire-worms stretched across the front of an electric fire. Some sort of antique, thought Filth. Haven’t seen one like that in sixty years. Chambers in the years of the Great Fog.

In a display case on the chimney-piece he saw a pair of exotic chandelier earrings. The fire, the earrings, the whiskey, the jigsaw, the silence, the eerily-falling snow made him all at once want to weep.

“I was sorry to hear about Betty,” said Veneering.

“I was sorry about Elsie,” said Filth, remembering her name and her still and beautiful — and unhappy — Chinese face. “Your son—?”

“Dead,” said Veneering. “Killed. Army.”

“I am most terribly sorry. So dreadfully sorry. I hadn’t heard.”

“We don’t hear much these days,” said Veneering. “Maybe we don’t want to. We had too many Hearings.”

Filth watched the arthritic stooped old figure shamble across the room to the decanter.

“Not good for the bones, this climate,” said Veneering, shambling back.

“Did you think of staying on?”

“Good God, no.”

“It suited you so well.” Then Filth said something very odd. “Better than us, I always thought. Better than me, anyway. And Betty never talked about it. She was very Scotch, you know.”

“Plenty of Scots in Hong Kong,” said Veneering. “You two seemed absolutely welded, melded, into the place. Betty and her Chinese jewellery.”

“Oh, she tried,” said Filth sadly. “She was very faithful.”

“Another?”

“I should be getting home.”

It dawned on Old Filth that he would have to ask a favour of Veneering. He had already lost a good point to him by calling round wet to the skin. Veneering was still no fool. He’d spotted the telephone business. It would be difficult to regain his position. Maybe make something out of being the first to break the silence? Maturity. Magnanimity. Water under the bridge. Christmas Day. Hint at a larger spirit?

He wouldn’t mention locking himself out.

But how was he to get home? Mrs. Thing’s key was three miles off and she wasn’t coming in again until New Year’s Day. He could hardly stay here — Good God! With Veneering!

“I’ve thought of coming to see you,” said Veneering. “Several times as a matter of fact, this past year. Getting on, both of us.”

Old Filth was silent. He himself had not thought of doing anything of the sort, and could not pretend.

“Couldn’t think of a good excuse,” said Veneering. “Bit afraid of the reception. Bloody hot-tempered type, I used to be. We weren’t exactly similar.”

“I’ve forgotten what type I was,” said Filth, again surprising himself. “Not much of anything, I expect.”

“Bloody good advocate,” said Veneering.

“You made a damn good judge,” said Filth, remembering that this was true. “Better than I was.”

“Only excuse I could think of was a feeble one,” said Veneering. “There’s a key of yours here hanging in my pantry. Front door. Chubb. Your address is on the label. Must have been here for years. Neighbours being neighbourly long ago, I expect. Maybe you have one of mine?”

“No,” said Filth. “No, I’ve not seen one.”

“Could have let myself in, any time,” said Veneering. “Murdered you in your bed.” There was a flash of the old black mischief. “Must you go? I don’t think there’s going to be a taxi. It would never make the hill. I’ll get that key — unless you want me to hold on to it. For an emergency?” (Another hard look.)

“No,” said Filth with Court decorum. “No, I’ll take it and see if it works.”

On Veneering’s porch, wearing Veneering’s (ghastly) over-coat, Filth paused. The snow was easing. He heard himself say, “Boxing Day tomorrow. If you’re on your own, I’ve a ham shank and some decent claret.”

“Pleasure,” said Veneering.

On his own doorstep Filth thought: Will it turn?

It did.

The house was beautifully warm but he made up the fire. The water would be hot, thank God. Get out of these clothes. Hello? What?

He thought he heard something in the kitchen. Hello? Yes?

He went through and found it empty. The snow had stopped at last and the windows were squares of black light. He thought, peering forward into the gloaming: Someone is looking in. But he could see no signs of footprints anywhere, and drew the curtains. He peeped into cupboards to make sure of things for tomorrow. Didn’t want to look a fool. There was a can of shark’s fin soup. Tin of crab-meat. Good rice. Package of parmesan. Avocado. Fine. Fine.

Behind him in the hall he heard something like a chuckle.

“Who the hell is that? Hello?” (Had the fellow had two keys? Murdered you in your bed .)

“Edward, Edward, stop these fantasies! You are too old. You are no longer seven.” A man’s voice. Good God, I’m going senile. “Yes, Sir,” he said. “Kettle. Hot water bottle. Bath. I’m old.”

The phone rang.

“You back safely?” asked Veneering’s voice. “I thought I’d try the phone. We’re in touch again.”

“Oh. Thanks, Veneering. One o’clock tomorrow?”

“Yes. Would you like me to bring my chessmen?”

“Got some. Maybe next time.”

“Next time.”

So it wasn’t Veneering, he ruminated in the bath, idly watching his old greying pubic hair floating like fern on the delicious hot water. Steam filled the bathroom. He almost slept.

Better get out. Somehow. Or it’ll be all over.

He turned his lanky frame so that he was on all fours, facing the porcelain floor of the bath, balanced on his spread hands and his sharp knees (one of them none too excellent), and slithered his feet about to get some sort of purchase near the taps. Slowly the long length of him arose, feet squeaking a little. He pulled the plug out and watched the soapy water begin to drain, bubbling round his now rosy feet. He thought of another river. Black and brown babies splashing. A girl all warmth and laughter, his head against her thighs. The water gurgled away.

Getting more difficult. Must get a shower. Won’t have one of those bloody mats with suction pads, though. Won’t have what they call the Social Services. Veneering doesn’t, you can see. Mind, Veneering doesn’t look as if he has baths at all. Poor old bugger.

Wrapped in a white bath towel he padded about. Slippers, bath robe. Perfectly well. Take a little something to bed? No— eat it over the telly? Anchovy toast. Tea — enough whiskey. Ha! — blaze up, fire. Mustn’t drop off.

“Don’t drop off,” said a woman’s voice. “Don’t drop off the perch! Not yet.”

“Hey, hello, what? Betty?”

But again, nobody there.

Hope I’m not feverish.

“And I’m not being a fool,” he shouted to the door of Betty’s old bedroom and shut his own bedroom door behind him.

Perfectly in charge.

The bed was warm, and his own. Extraordinary really, the idea of sharing a bed. Bourgeois. Something Betty and I never talked about.